


fast forward to the good part

by lescousinsdangereux



Category: RWBY
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Minor Coco Adel/Velvet Scarlatina, Minor Pyrrha Nikos/Weiss Schnee
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-10
Updated: 2019-06-10
Packaged: 2020-04-23 18:44:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 28,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19156777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lescousinsdangereux/pseuds/lescousinsdangereux
Summary: “SoMercurywas being gross around Blake andshetold him she was seeing someone and whenYangcame over and told him to get lost he assumed thatYangwas Blake’s girlfriend and so now you’re just going for it and pretending to be in a committed, romantic relationship because you don’t want to giveMercurythe satisfaction of thinking he was worth coming up with a lie to avoid.” Ruby sucks in a deep breath and nods to herself, head bobbing with the sharp and rapid jerks of her chin. “Got it! Makes sense to me!”(or: the fake dating wedding au)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> To set the vibe, here's the [fic playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0r1h19BHxStC4RUxNjoUWO?si=zodIrkZoQJOLa-j7fnnCXg)

_I just want you for my own_  
_(Get me in my zone)_  
_Save your words for another day_  
_Tonight we’re speaking with our bodies_  
  
_No talk, no fuss_  
_All you ever do is make me blush_  
_Cause tonight is for the two of us  
_ _Fast forward to the good part_

[Him x Her, _Hush_ ]

 

—

 

“You know, when I offered to bring you to the wedding of the _decade_ , I thought you might do a _little_ more than stand in a corner sipping a bottomless flute of Dom Perignon.”

Blake frowns, tucking further into herself — shoulders curling inwards — chilled glass pressing against the skin at her collarbone left bare by the cut of her dress. She would glare, but it feels unkind and unfair; Weiss isn’t _wrong_ and really, a pointed statement and an arching brow is probably less of a rebuke than she deserves, especially when Weiss _immediately_ softens after delivering the line. (She’s careful with Blake these days — more than usual — and that’s how Blake knows her moping has shifted into something bordering on pathetic.)

“I only suggested you attend because I thought you’d have a decent time,” she adds, and sure enough, her voice is full of concern. “And because you’d reached the point of wearing sweatpants _five_ days in a row and honestly? If that isn’t a cry for help, I don’t know what is.”

She takes another sip of her champagne before placing the flute to the side, tucking it behind the chafing dish she’d been sneaking crostini out of for the past hour. It’s not an action she performs without regret; it turns out, absurdly overpriced champagne _is_ a fair bit better than the bottom shelf varieties (even if _most_ of the cost backed up the name on the label), but trying to convince Weiss of her mental wellbeing while downing any sort of alcohol seems like a foolhardy choice. Much better to cross her arms and look stern, draw on some of the lessons in _presence_ she’s picked up in the courtroom, and hope for the best.

“And who says enjoying the ridiculously extravagant food and drink of the disgustingly wealthy isn’t a great way to have a decent time?”

“No one,” Weiss says, overly casual in a way that tells Blake she’s not going to get out of this one easily. “But generally, having a decent time involves a _bit_ less glaring and outright brooding. As a rule.”

“I don’t know anyone here!” And yeah, Blake’s pouting. She’s twenty-eight and she’s pouting and it’s not a good look.

“It’s a _welcome party_ , Blake,” Weiss sighs. “Generally, that’s a good place to meet people.”

“Well, no offense, but a lot of the people you’ve introduced me to so far have been…” It’s not fair to say, so she trails off, but Weiss just rolls her eyes, waves her hand in a familiar dismissive gesture that _almost_ makes Blake smile.

“Awful, I know. But that’s because I only know Coco’s pretentious family members that she _had_ to invite. Supposedly, there are far more… colorful associations present, or so I gathered from the way the various crumungeny men in the room were speaking.”

“Faunus ones,” Blake interprets, expression darkening once more.

“Poor ones,” Weiss corrects. “Or at least, that’s the part they were concerned with.” She shakes her head. “It doesn’t matter. The _point_ is, there are literally hundreds of guests present and we’re here for four days. It couldn’t hurt to try to find _one_ person who is worth your time. Or, at the _very_ least, might distract you from… everything. God knows you need something that _I_ can’t give you, because I’ve tried everything.”

Including an impressive marathon of Reese Witherspoon movies and several pints of Chunky Monkey that Weiss had dutifully helped consume without complaint, despite her dislike for what she’d dubbed ‘self-pitying binge behavior’.

“Okay.” She lets out a slow breath, guilted by the memory. “Okay. You’re right. I could be… trying. Harder. Let’s try to find someone who doesn’t look like they have a roll of hundreds stuck up their ass and I will _attempt_ a conversation. Or two.”

“Such rousing enthusiasm,” Weiss drawls, but looks pleased despite herself, a small lift at one corner of her lips. “But I’ll take it. Let’s — “

“Miss Schnee!”

Weiss blows her bangs out of her face with the force of her annoyed exhale, eyes lifting towards the ceiling, offering Blake an apologetic smile before she carefully rearranges her features into something far more agreeable — pleased, even — and turns to walk towards the shout. It originates from a tall, balding man that Blake knows at first glance that she has absolutely no interest in speaking with. Weiss will forgive her for slinking away, she’s pretty sure, especially if she frames it properly, as though she’s gone to find someone worth meeting. (Even if it’s more about escaping than finding, at this point.)

That’s her first mistake, most likely: wanting it to look as though she’s _open_ to conversation, even if it’s more for the sake of appeasing Weiss, should she happen to look over. Her second mistake is glancing around the room and actually making _eye contact_. It’s a dangerous pursuit at the best of times, but at a wedding? It’s an exercise always bound for disaster, and one strikes nearly immediately, when she locks gazes with a grey-eyed boy whose smirk tells her almost everything she needs to know about him, including the fact that he’ll take any gesture — even a half second of eyes meeting — as an invitation to engage. Which, of course, he does, striding over even when Blake jerks her stare away, groaning at the predictability of it all. She can almost hear his stupid opening line before he says it, dipping with confidence that his _objectively_ decent features have surely always told him he’s earned.

“I was starting to lose hope that _anyone_ at this thing would be worth talking to,” he drawls, stepping close, leaning in like it’s a secret he’s sharing. “But here you are, sent to save me from a wedding of drudgery.”

“I’m fairly certain that’s not the case,” Blake says cooly.

“I’m Mercury,” he says, undeterred, just like she’d known he would be (because they always are). “And we only have four days together. Let’s not waste any time on playing hard to get.”

“Not wasting any time sounds like a fantastic change of pace.” She won’t step back — she’s grown tired of shows of retreat in recent years — but she does fold her arms, one on top of the other. “How’s this: I’m not interested in whatever it is you think you’re offering.”

“But you haven’t even heard my pitch, sweetheart.”

Blake groans audibly. “Oh, wonderful. Another man who doesn’t know the meaning of ‘no’. That’s new and different. Look, I’m here with someone, so this _really_ isn’t what you think it is.”

His expression turns sour, doubt overtaking him for the first time. It’s a horrific thing, the way that comprehension only comes with the notion that someone else has already laid claim, but it’s the easiest way out of it, to make sure she doesn’t have to deal with this moron during the rest of her time here. But of course, because this boy is a _particularly_ stupid sort, he just squares his shoulders and dives back in.

“Whoever he is, there’s no way he matches _this_. Take a second look.”

And yeah, she’s done. There’s only so much standing your ground in the face of something like _this_. Blowing out a scoff, she steps to the slide, only to find her way blocked, Mercury mirroring her steps. Every muscle in Blake tenses and she takes an immediate step back, nature overcoming good intentions. She’s in the middle of weighing her options (laying him out with a kick between the legs is looking more and more appealing), but doesn’t make it any further, a loud shout startling her out of her contemplation.

“Hey, _fuckface_ , wanna take a step _back_?”

It’s clear Mercury recognizes the newcomer, because the emotion that overtakes his features is too pointed to be directed at a stranger. It doesn’t help Blake relax any, seeing that rage, even when it’s not directed at her, and she turns to the woman, worried about the cost of interference, only to be struck dumb when she comes face to face with the most beautiful woman she’s ever seen. (It’d be cheesy if it weren’t true. Or, it’s _still_ cheesy, but Blake doesn’t care because it’s _true_.)

“ _This_ is your _date_?” he sneers. “ _Xiao_ _Long_? Are you _kidding_ me?”

The words don’t make any sense at first. But that’s probably because she’s hooked on full lips pulled in a snarl, lilac eyes narrowed in anger, the angular planes of the woman’s face highlighted by the overhead lights of the room. It’s probably because, when the woman draws closer, her bare arm (firm, visibly muscled) brushes up against Blake’s and she spends a full three second wondering how it’s possible for someone to be so _warm_ , like she’s just stepped away from standing in front of a fire. And that fire overtakes Blake, too, a transference that doesn’t make any sense at all, but overwhelms nevertheless.

“That’s right,” the woman says, and settles her left hand _just_ against the small of Blake’s back.

T _hat’s_ what jolts her out of it, sends her mind spinning again, reeling as it takes a half second to catch up. Once she’s there, she doesn’t see a better course of action than following along, for better or worse. But she’s kidding herself, obviously — she wants to follow — wants to be dragged into whatever this is. And why wouldn’t she, when more time with this woman will be the end result? Even an extra minute seems like it would be worth the lie.

“As I said,” she says, venom in her tone, “I’m here with someone. And even if I wasn’t, you’d be the last person here I would give a second glance.”

She’s surprised when her _date_ laughs, loud and unrestrained. It affects Mercury more than scorn or anger had, and he scowls at both of them before _finally_ walking off. (It _also_ affects Blake; she’d thought the woman was stunning while _mad_ , but now — with a grin stretching her cheeks, lightening her eyes, relaxing her posture — she looks breathtaking in her joy.)

“Oh, that was _brutal_!” She laughs again and drops her hand from Blake’s back, steps away to give her a little more space; Blake appreciates the gesture, but finds herself missing the warmth at the same time, contrary in a way she rarely is. “Sorry about that, by the way. I know you had that asshole handled, but I figured an assist couldn’t hurt.”

“Sure, as long as you don’t consider suddenly becoming my girlfriend something that hurts.” Turning to the woman now, Blake _certainly_ isn’t under the impression that it’s something that does. She’s wearing a simple dress, sleeveless and fitted, showing off the arms Blake had felt the strength of earlier, though it’s only now that she notices one of them is a prosthetic: a sleek, black, metallic lower half of her arm that somehow doesn’t look at all out of place, even paired with the purple mini-dress.

“Are you kidding? That’s the most flattering case of mistaken identity that’s ever happened to me.” Her smile is so _bright_ — so far away from any kind of self consciousness — that Blake finds her own forming in response.

“Not so much mistaken identity as filling a role I’d only just created and hadn’t had a chance to cast.” She shrugs, feeling a need to explain. “It seemed an easy out at the time, but now… ”

“ _Now_ you have to decide how you’re going to keep it up. Because Mercury is a fuckwit who’ll probably whine about it to anyone who will listen.” Her eyebrows lift slightly, smile turning sympathetic. “Yeah, that’s _partially_ my fault too. He and I sort of have a… thing.” Her nose scrunches. “Not a _thing_ thing — I’d rather die than touch a man, let alone Mercury — but a rivalry thing. Or, not even _that_ because he always loses, but _he_ thinks it’s a rivalry thing. I just hate him.”

It’s a lot to process and leaves a couple questions; Blake settles on one. “How do you know him?”

“Oh, right. Um — long story, sort of.” The woman looks unsure for the first time, running a hand through her hair (long, blonde, gorgeous). “We work in a similar area. We both work on cars.”

“That’s not a very long story,” Blake says, amused.

“Well, it’s not _just_ that, it’s — ” She glances around in a way Blake would describe as _furtive_ , or at least, an attempt at it. In the few minutes she’s known her, she can’t imagine the woman manages any form of subtlety especially well. “We mod cars. And… race them. Sometimes.”

Blake blinks. “Wait. Who _are_ you?”

The laugh rolls in again, sound settling low in Blake’s stomach, warming her from the inside out. “I’m Yang.”

“Blake.” She shakes her head. “I’d offer my hand, but since we’re dating, that hardly seems appropriate. But then, I’ve only just found out you’re some kind of _Fast and the Furious_ driver, so what do I know?”

“First of all, those movies are _great_ , so no need to sound so condescending. Secondly — ” Her lips twitch. “Yeah, we should probably learn a little bit about each other if we’re going to pull this off.”

Somehow, it hadn’t occurred to Blake that _pulling this off_ was even a possibility. Probably because it was _insane_ , overall. Spending four days at a wedding _event_ , pretending to date a woman she’d only just met, simply to avoid the attentions of a few overly entitled rich boys? It hardly aligned with Blake’s modus operandi. But Yang is smiling — totally undeterred — seemingly willing and ready to spend the weekend locked in a fake relationship with her and — more than that — actually looks _excited_ at the prospect, if the tilt of her lips is anything to go by.

Yang is beautiful, Blake has four long days in front of her, and she’s promised Weiss she would try to have _fun_ , and… well. She could use a distraction. A break. If nothing else, this promises to occupy her attention.

And Blake _hasn’t_ done crazier things, not really, but maybe that’s what makes it so appealing.

“Seems like a basic requirement.” She tilts her head, watching Yang closely. “You don’t mind?”

“Getting to know a pretty girl?” She winks and _oh_ , so _this_ is how things will go. Blake can’t say she minds, given the way the simple action has the muscles in her abdomen clenching. “Sounds _awful_ , but I think I’ll manage. Besides, I’m here with my _sister_.” She makes a face. “I need to meet some cool new people at this thing or Coco will never let me hear the end of it.”

Her brow pinches, a single crease forming across her forehead. “Actually, we’re going to have to work that one out. Like, how deep undercover are we _going_ here? We’ll have to tell Ruby — my sister — because I live with her and so obviously she’d have known about you. But Coco might wonder why I’ve never mentioned you. Or why I didn’t invite you. I guess we could just tell her too, but it’s her _wedding_ and she probably doesn’t actually care so…” She lets out a long breath. “I dunno. Let’s just wing it for that sort of stuff. That sounds more fun anyways.”

“Does it?” Blake asks, vaguely bewildered.

“Well, yeah.” The grin spreads slow but fully. “It gets boring, knowing how everything’s gonna play out. Don’t you think?”

Five years ago she hadn’t. She’d never been like Weiss (planning each step out, her Ten Year Plan carefully typed up, pinned to her desktop), but _steps_ had always brought some level of comfort (finish college, get into law school, pass the Bar, find a job that _mattered_ ), progression toward a final end goal that had always felt too overwhelming to tackle all at once. But now, fresh out of a two year relationship that’d hit every beat it should have and still managed to fall short, she thinks maybe she can nod at Yang’s question.

“Sometimes. I guess it can.”

“Sometimes,” Yang repeats, smile softening with the modifier. “I can work with that. But first… drinks? I’m buying.”

She presses her lips together, but knows the smile shows in her eyes.

“It’s an open bar.”

Yang snaps out a finger-gun with her prosthetic and it’s somehow _charming_.

“Which means you can get as much as you want, babe.”

But the way _babe_ rolls off her tongue? That’s more than charming. It’s just _hot_.

 

—

 

Thirty minutes into knowing Yang Xiao Long and Blake has seen her go from fiercely protective (of a woman she’s never met) to agreeable (to an almost concerning degree) to harmlessly charming (no expectations therein). But it’s only upon meeting Ruby that she realizes that underneath everything Yang does, there’s kindness.

There’s another thing that underlays each action Yang takes, and that’s a _heavy_ weight of attractiveness. (The crook of her mouth when she smiles, the stretch of her dress against the muscles of her stomach when she moves, the way she says Blake’s name — low, with meaning Blake can’t _quite_ place — when she introduces her.) But recognizing that in front of Yang’s sister — who’s staring at Blake with large silver eyes and a grin as wide as her face — feels wrong, and so Blake does her best to ignore it. (For now.)

“So _Mercury_ was being gross around Blake and _she_ told him she was seeing someone and when _Yang_ came over and told him to get lost he assumed that _Yang_ was Blake’s girlfriend and so now you’re just going for it and pretending to be in a committed, romantic relationship because you don’t want to give _Mercury_ the satisfaction of thinking he was worth coming up with a lie to avoid.” Ruby sucks in a deep breath and nods to herself, head bobbing with the sharp and rapid jerks of her chin. “Got it! Makes sense to me!”

Blake’s not sure how that can be true, when it barely makes sense to _her_ (and makes _no_ sense when removed from the objective fact that Yang is _stunning_ and Blake is tired of wallowing), but she’s perfectly willing to nod along, coast through without messy explanations.

“Great! So if anyone asks…”

“I love Blake! She’s my favorite girlfriend you’ve ever had! And I’m really, _really_ grateful she let me be your plus one instead of her because I heard there was going to be a _hot air balloon ride_ and I _really_ wanted to go!”

“Oh, nice ad lib at the end there, sis!” Yang lifts her arm for a high-five and Ruby meets her hand within a second of it being raised, jumping off the ground with the force of her enthusiasm… and out of necessity; Yang is significantly taller than her (taller than Blake, too, which is _not_ something that Blake has failed to notice or appreciate). “There _is_ actually going to be a hot air balloon ride, but _that’s_ a surprise, so you can’t tell anyone,” she adds, leaning in towards Blake.

“These people are really going all out, aren’t they?” As though that hadn’t been evident from the hotel all the guests had been set up in and the massive ballroom they were currently occupying. She’s used to extravagance in small doses — growing up in a family that had never hurt financially and being best friends with the head of the largest Dust company in all of Remnant — but from what she’s seen thus far, and from what Weiss has told her, this is going to be something else entirely.

“The Adels are pretty well off, but beyond that, Coco is like, fashion royalty now. Pretty sure the rest of the wedding weekend is going to make this seem _really_ tame.” Yang lifts an eyebrow in question. “Do you know Velvet, then?”

For a brief moment, she feels a flash of anger — drawing the sort of impatient conclusion about humans she always thinks she’s grown out of — before she realizes Yang’s question probably has nothing to do with the fact that she and Velvet are both Faunus and everything to do with her clearly knowing _nothing_ about Coco or her family.

“I’ve only met them both once. When I said I was here with someone, I wasn’t _actually_ lying. I’m just here with a friend. I was going to use her as an excuse before you came along, Yang.”

“Hah!” Ruby shouts, throwing her head back with the force of it. “Classic Yang! Remember that time you pulled the car over because you thought Nora had stalled out and instead it was just her and Ren in the bac— ”

“Nope. I don’t remember that. And neither do you. It’s inappropriate.”

She reaches over to rub Ruby’s hair, but is batted away quickly, Ruby’s hands moving faster than Blake can track as she flails about, swatting at Yang repeatedly.

“I’m _twenty-six_!” Her voice squeaks higher at the end; it doesn’t help her case, but it’s _adorable_ , and Blake realizes she’s smiling — smiling freely — at the spectacle before her.

“You’re eternally fifteen in my mind. It can’t be helped. Big sister privileges.”

“Yang,” Ruby whines. “You’re being embarrassing! In front of _Blake_!”

“You’re used to it at this point. I embarrass you in front of Blake on a regular basis, remember? Since she’s over _all the time_.”

Ruby stares at her blankly. A full second passes.

“Oh _yeah_!”

“This is going to go _great_!” Yang nudges Blake with her elbow. “No _way_ is this going to result in us getting into comically absurd hijinks to avoid being caught in our ever-spiraling lie, all culminating in us being kicked out of the wedding for burning down a multi-million dollar yacht with an ill-placed gasoline can and a magnifying glass that I was trying to use to burn our faces out of a polaroid picture that shows us engaged in behavior that would somehow immediately give us away.”

“That’s — that’s _really_ specific, Yang.”

“She’s never burned down a _yacht_ , but she _did_ set our yard on fire when we were kids,” Ruby chimes in. “So she’s drawing from some kind of experience.”

“ _That_ accident had nothing to do with pretending to date a cute girl, because I was seven. But I do _still_ believe that using a magnifying glass to set things on fire is a _crucial_ life skill, even if I haven’t used it as much in the past twenty-some years as my seven-year-old self might have suspected.”

“Let’s maybe _not_ aim for that to pick up in frequency now, if there are going to be stray gasoline cans lying about,” Blake suggests, only barely maintaining her tone of warning when Yang lets a laugh lose once again.

“Is this the part where I’m supposed to say ‘yes ma’am’? Because that’s not _normally_ my thing, but in this case, I _might_ be willing to accommodate.” Yang’s eyes hold hers, and there’s a spark of _something_ there. Something that has Blake catching her bottom lip between her teeth.

“That depends. Is _that_ part of our dating backstory?” she asks, voice low, and is rewarded when Yang visibly lets out a breath.

The moment is interrupted by Ruby making a sort of retching noise.

“Oh, gross,” she groans. “ _Minor_ problem with this backstory, you guys. How do I manage to put up with this all the time?”

“You’re happy because I’m so happy,” Yang sighs, and the moment might be broken, but Yang’s wink still does things to Blake’s heart rate. “Obviously.”

“You seem like the type of supportive sister to be very encouraging. And you _already_ said I’m your favorite of all the girlfriends Yang’s had.”

“I’m sorry, _what_?”

It’s a sign of how wrapped up they’d been that none of them had noticed Weiss’s approach, but as soon as she speaks, their reactions are immediate: Ruby jumps, Blake turns sharply toward the intrusion, and Yang — apparently the coolest of them under pressure — slides a hand around Blake’s waist. Whether it’s due to the latter action or the recognition that comes when she spots Weiss, Blake can’t be sure, but she relaxes right away, expression melting into a smile.

“Hi, Weiss!” She reaches for her drink, resting on the standing table in front of them, fingers curling around the stem of the wine glass in a gesture she hopes looks casual. “I made friends.”

“And a girlfriend, apparently,” Weiss says, with a significant look at the hand resting comfortably at her hip. “Funny, you didn’t have one of those a half-hour ago.”

“Yeah, pretty interesting story there.” Yang leans over to offer her hand, and to Weiss’s credit, she doesn’t even blink at the prosthetic, wrapping her hand around the metal to return the shake, bewilderment reserved for the words more than anything else. “I’m Yang. And if anyone asks we’ve been dating for — actually, have we decided that yet?”

“Can’t have been more than three months ago, since that’s when she broke up with Sun,” Weiss supplies, until she realizes what she’s saying, and shakes her head. “Wait. No. I’m not helping with this until I can fully grasp _why_ it’s happening.”

“Oh, shit, I’m a _rebound_?” Yang gasps, and maybe Blake should be bothered by the mention of Sun, but she’s not, whisked away in Yang’s easy-going charm in a way she thinks might become routine. “Okay, that adds a new _layer_ to the backstory. We met after that, right? And it was like, a whirlwind romance thing that caught us both by surprise. We were trying to take it slow, but there’s a _persistent_ attraction that is just _impossible_ to ignore and so maybe we kind of rushed into things faster than we thought we would.”

Blake laughs at the eyebrow waggle at the end and Weiss’s neck nearly _snaps_ with the speed which she swivels her head between Yang and the sound and back again.

“Who _are_ you?” she asks.

“Um. Yang. Xiao Long? I just said that.” She leans in with a faux-whisper. “Blake, I think your friend is having some trouble here. Maybe you should step in.”

“No, wait, I’ve got it! _This_ is what happened.” Ruby takes a deep breath. “Blake got hit on by a jerk. He started getting _weird_. Blake said she was here with someone. He didn’t back off. Yang stepped in. The jerk thought Yang was the girlfriend. And now we’re trying to figure out the specifics. Oh! And I’m Ruby! Yang’s sister! Hi!”

“That was a far more succinct than last time, Ruby,” Blake says. Well done.”

Ruby beams at the compliment, but Yang cuts in quickly.

“Oh, I dunno. I kind of liked the flavor text of the last one. This was kind of cut and dry.”

“She was catering to the audience.”

“She doesn’t _know_ the audience.”

Weiss clears her throat pointedly. “The _audience_ has a name.”

“Right!” Blake cuts her eyes away from Yang’s with some effort. “This is Weiss Schnee. My best friend. Who _generously_ brought me to this wedding and then insisted I go socialize. Which I did. So perhaps she should be _proud_ rather than judgemental right now.”

“I’m not being judgemental,” Weiss says, in the same tone of voice she uses when she’s being absolutely, one-hundred percent judgemental. “I’m _simply_ trying to follow along.”

“Weiss _Schnee_?” Yang cuts in, and Blake nearly groans when Weiss turns the full weight of her stare towards her. “You’ve sure been in the news a lot in the past few years.”

“Oh, _yeah_!” Ruby leans forward, shifting her weight onto her elbows resting on the table, feet lifting off the ground briefly. “We use Dust in our cars, so we follow the main companies that produce it pretty closely.”

“We were bummed when SDC prices went up,” Yang adds, and — as Weiss’s jaw tenses — Blake’s mind races with trying to figure out the best way to sidetrack the conversation. “But when all that stuff came out about _why —_ how you were changing the gross labor practices your dad introduced and whatnot — we started buying from you all exclusively. Bet that hasn’t been easy, dealing with the fallout, but for what it’s worth, you’ve got our business.”

“Oh.” It’s rare to see Weiss made speechless, but she flounders a bit now, exchanging a glance with Blake that she can only return with the same level of surprise. “Thank you. It has certainly been… difficult.” She shakes her head once. “But I couldn’t have done it without Blake. Her guidance in the legalities of union navigation was absolutely instrumental.”

“I’m a labor law attorney,” Blake explains quickly. “Weiss and I met in undergrad when her father was still in charge of SDC and I was a _bit_ — ”

“ — confrontational,” Weiss finishes dryly. “But eventually we figured out we had complementary goals for career paths. Ten years later and here we are: at the wedding of a fashion icon, one of us forced into conversation about stock prices, the other getting a girlfriend three seconds after she decides she’d like to try out socializing.”

“Wow.” Yang looks genuinely stunned, wide eyes on Blake, lips parted in a way that she can’t help but appreciate. “I’m _totally_ dating _up_. The mechanic snags the _lawyer_! _Hell_ yeah.”

“Mechanic,” Weiss repeats, shooting Blake a look that has her rolling her eyes right back.

“Technically, _tuner_ is more accurate, since she _builds_ the cars.” Ruby says, cheerful despite Weiss’s tone. “Or, occasionally _driver_ , for the races.”

“Yeah, but the mechanic and the lawyer is like, a staple of one of those cheesy romance novels. I feel like it works better for our background. Blake’s car broke down really late and she was on her scroll with all the tow trucks in town and one of them _happened_ to be owned by a friend of mine who called in a favor and _bam_ suddenly Blake and her car are in my shop and it’s late so _I’m_ the only one there and I’m in like, coveralls but the top is tied around my waist and I’m wearing a tank top underneath and I’m covered in grease and Blake is _immediately_ attracted to this roguish figure and we get our flirt on while I’m looking at her car, probably with an engine innuendo of some sort running throughout.”

Blake will _never_ admit it, but the visual certainly takes her somewhere. Somewhere that involves rough hands and Yang’s sharp smirk and being bent over the hood of a car and, oh — _god_ — it shows on her face; she knows it shows on face because Yang’s mouth curls in the same sort of smile she’s _imagining_ and her grip tightens — fingers still in place at Blake’s hip — just the slightest bit.

“We could — we could go with that.”

Wonderful. It shows in her voice too — a slight hitch in the middle — and Weiss stares at her, absolutely incredulous. There’s a lecture building within in her, Blake’s absolutely sure, but the shock of the situation seems to have postponed it, even if there’s no chance of it being delayed indefinitely.

“I think it’s easy to remember.”

“Hard to forget,” Blake agrees, though maybe she means something else entirely.

(Something like: she’s going to be thinking about it tonight while she’s lying in bed, searching for some form of restraint, but still wondering if the walls of her hotel suite are thick enough to mask exactly how much she appreciates this particular version of their backstory.)

“Great. It’s settled then.” And Yang’s stare, intent and _almost_ smug, says something too.

(Something like: she wouldn’t mind being there for this show of appreciation, if only Blake would invite her in.)

 

—

 

“You realize, of course, that this is a _horrible_ idea.”

Blake sighs, shaking out her hair from where it’d been pinned up, and Weiss — watching without the slightest trace of pity from where she’s perched on her bed — lifts both her eyebrows, crossing one arm over the other with deliberate slowness. She has to give Weiss credit for one thing: she’s waited until now — a solid ten minutes after leaving Ruby and Yang in the hotel lobby, plans to meet for breakfast the next morning in place — to bring it up. Granted, she’d _also_ practically dragged Blake away from that final round of goodbyes, marching her up to her room with the clear determination of a woman with something to say. It’s hard to blame her; they’ve been friends for a decade and Blake’s never done anything quite like _this_. But then, she’s never really had the opportunity to do anything like this. And maybe that’s the point.

“Why?”

Weiss sputters, careful expression and posturing splintering. “Excuse me?”

“Why is it a horrible idea?” She turns away from the mirror to face Weiss directly, leaning up against the armoire, tilting her head in question. “Seriously.”

“I — you — ” Snapping her mouth shut, Weiss elects to glare instead; it probably has more to do with Blake’s inability to keep a straight face, lips twitching at the corners. “You’re pretending to date a _stranger_! You don’t know anything about her! She could be a _serial killer_ , Blake.”

“Oh, wow. Right to serial killer. But _you’re_ the one who’s been telling me to get out there. And I have to start somewhere.”

Weiss chews on the inside of her cheek, considering. “She’s not your type.”

Blake just stares.

“Okay, _fine_ , she’s exactly your type.” Her expression brightens, then turns smug. “She’s _too_ much of your type! Blond, cheerful, almost annoyingly outgoing… You broke up with Sun because everything became routine, right? And now you’re going after more of the same. How does that make sense?”

“It’s — ” Blake pauses, biting at her lip. “Different.”

“ _How_?”

She doesn’t know how to explain to Weiss that it’s different in _every_ way. That when she looks at Yang, she sees all of those surface things that Weiss had described, but also the _layers_ , waiting underneath, ready to be chipped away. She doesn’t know how to tell Weiss that the initial attraction between them had been sharp and furious and lasting, a persistent heat curling up in the pit of her stomach and taking root. Because she can’t explain it — not even to herself — beyond the fact that she’s attracted to this woman, more intensely than she’s ever felt the sensation in her life.

“Oh,” Weiss says, and Blake jolts out of her thoughts fast enough to catch the end of her eye roll. “Nevermind. You’re just lust-struck. Well, _fine_. This is a weird way to go about it, but whatever. Just make sure she doesn’t have anything you can catch.”

“ _Weiss_ ,” Blake sighs.

“That’s a _valid_ concern.”

She sighs again and lifts off the dresser, joining Weiss on the bed instead, hands folding in her lap.

“I just — I think I need something like this.”

“A fake girlfriend who you have a two-night stand with?” Weiss peers at her. “Or three-night, I suppose, if you invite her up here as soon as I leave.”

“Not even _that_.” (Though definitely _also_ that. Blake is most certainly thinking about precisely that.) “I don’t know. An adventure, maybe? Something different. And there’s — ” It sounds silly, even in her head, but she says it anyways. “There’s something there. Something worth looking into.”

The silence following her statement stretches on for a beat longer than it should, but finally, Weiss nods, and bumps their shoulders together. “Alright. Fine. Objections withdrawn. And when this all goes to _hell_ somehow, I will do my sacred best friend duties and get you out of it. But I reserve the right to say I told you so.”

Blake laughs softly and returns the little nudge. “Only if I get to say the same when it all goes _great_.”

Stranger things have happened, after all.

 

—

 

“You didn’t tell me you were bringing a date.”

The next morning finds the unlikely quartet at the same table for breakfast, Weiss staring in horror as Ruby plows through a comically large stack of waffles and Blake tries to figure out if Yang’s foot brushing up against hers under the table is an accident or a come on. She’s leaning towards the latter when a woman approaches their table, immediately recognizable as Coco Adel by the carefully tilted beret and the ever-present sunglasses. Blake certainly isn’t familiar enough with her for the words to be directed her way, so it makes sense when Yang grins, leaning back in her seat, stretching out an arm behind Blake’s chair.

“Yeah, well, we had to RSVP like, three months ago, and we’d only just started dating then. Plus, she already had an in.” Yang waves a hang towards Weiss (who nods at Coco with a little more warmth than she would her normal business associates), before leaning in towards Blake, hand hot at the back of her shoulder. “Anyways, now you know; so no harm, no foul. Coco, meet Blake.”

Coco hums, and taps her glasses down her nose to get a better look at Weiss and then Blake, who offers a nod of her own.

“Still. I had to hear about this from _Cinder_.” She makes a noise that borders on disgust. “You know I only invited her to watch her die of jealousy. How do you think it felt to have interesting gossip lorded over me? At my _own wedding_?”

“Absolutely dreadful,” Yang says, in some sort of ridiculous, posh accent that has Coco dropping her serious expression, enough fondness taking over to let everyone else at the table know her severity had been all for show. “I sincerely apologize for any trauma incurred at my expense.”

“You’re lucky you’re an excellent muse.” She turns back to Blake and smiles, genuine and warm. “And Blake, we’ll get to know each other better when I don’t have hundreds of guests to attend to. A double date Yang will set up to make this all up to me. I can tell I’m going to like you by the tailoring of those trousers.”

Blake laughs, charmed by the compliment just as much as she is by the easy teasing Coco sends Yang’s way with a familiarity that feels organic. It’s enough that she forgets — just for a moment — that all these future plans are absolutely pointless (at best). “Thank you. We’ll let Yang do all the heavy lifting.”

“Oh, I _do_ like you.” Coco smiles fully now. “Anyways, I’ve made sure that the two of you are booked for a couple’s massage this afternoon. And checked you both into one of the larger accommodations for our _mystery_ destination tomorrow. Next time, give a girl a little advanced notice, won’t you, Yang?”

Yang salutes and Coco spins on her heel to depart, strut surely as impressive as any of her models’. It’s only once she’s out of view that Ruby bursts into laughter and Weiss’s frown overtakes her face.

“Why didn’t you just _tell_ her?” Weiss asks. “I only know her through work, but you’re _clearly_ good friends.”

“Better than friends,” Blake adds, smile sly. “You’re her _muse_.”

She’s not at all disappointed by the fact that Yang hasn’t pulled away, even after Coco’s departure. If anything, Yang’s gotten more comfortable, absently wrapping a strand of Blake’s hair around her finger as she considers both Weiss’s question and Blake’s playful barb.

“It’s her wedding; she has more important things to think about than one of her guests being a dick. I’ll explain it all later, if I need to. And,” she continues, tugging gently at the curl. “She was _joking_. Mostly.”

“That’s how they know each other.” Ruby’s first words are muffled by the forkful of waffles she’d recently transferred to her mouth, but she swallows before continuing further (though Blake can’t say how much Weiss’s twisting lip of disgust factors into this decision). “Coco wanted to do a line that was inspired by Shade street racing, and since Yang _always_ looks good for her races, asking around led Coco to her.”

“ _Street_ racing?”

“Anyways,” Blake says, ignoring Weiss’s exclamation (outside of shooting a warning look in her direction). “The takeaway here is that the word is out and we’re going to be… roommates. Seems like we’re going to have to up our game.”

Across the table, Ruby takes another bite of her breakfast, eyes darting back and forth between Blake and Yang like she’s following a spectator sport. Next to her, Weiss — clearly resigned — pierces a piece of pineapple with her fork, etiquette pitch perfect. But as is rapidly becoming her new normal, it’s Yang who has her attention, twirling a spoon between her fingers as she watches Blake, lips a crooked line.

“I can do that. You just let me know if I push you past your limit, alright?”

 _That_ , she nearly says, _is_ exactly _what I want you to do._

“You can try,” she murmurs instead. “But I don’t think you’ll manage to hit it.”

But, of course, Yang hears it for precisely what it is, teeth flashing as her grin grows.

“Challenge accepted.”

 

—

 

Almost immediately, it’s too much.

But only in the best way possible.

(Like gulping down a full bottle of water after a workout, sun finally hitting the eyes after a day spent indoors, and — of course — the third orgasm in a row, begging for an end to the stimulation but still wanting to be pushed for more.)

It’s a spa day — luxurious pampering for all the wedding guests — and they’ve lucked out with a late morning slot. Yang takes her hand as soon as they get up from the breakfast table and interlocks their fingers on the way to the fleet of limos they’ve been told is waiting for them. She ignores Weiss’s soft scoff and Ruby’s light giggle behind them, and throws her best lovestruck expression in Blake’s direction instead. They share the ride with two other women: one with hair so red it’s nearly unnatural, the other whose bright orange hair somehow isn’t the loudest thing about her. Weiss seems to know the first ( _this is Pyrrha Nikos_ , she says, like Blake should know the name), but honestly, Blake has a hard time paying attention to either. Yang wraps her arms around her shoulders as soon as they’re sitting, tucking Blake against her side, and introduces herself, right after Blake, as ‘the girlfriend’ with an ease that’s almost startling. And when the champagne goes around, Blake passes, already feeling drunk on the way the tips of Yang’s fingers draw lazy circles on her skin. She’s already emboldened by the resulting intoxication, settling her hand on Yang’s lower thigh, fingers curling around towards the inside of it, feeling the muscles flex in response.

By the time they reach the Spa, she can barely remember a line of conversation, but thinks she _could_ make a detailed map charting the exact course Yang’s fingers had taken, each loop they’d traced along her arm. She _does_ notice that Weiss hardly seems torn up about it when they part ways — departing with a wave over the shoulder, still locked in conversation with Pyrrha — when Blake and Yang are taken to a separate area for their couple’s massage. So that’s one less thing to worry about. Which is good, because Blake has plenty of other things on her mind, seeing as when they enter the private room, the first thing they’re asked to do is get naked.

Yang manages to hold back her smirk until their masseuses leave the room, and though Blake feels blood rush to her cheeks, she does manage an eye roll in response to the cheekiness of it.

“Getting me naked and I don’t even know your last name,” Yang teases. “I’m the girl parents warn their kids about.”

“Wouldn’t that make _me_ the girl parents warn their kids about? You’re just the girl parents tell their children not to _be_.”

“Oh, wow.” Yang’s mouth opens, eyes widening dramatically. “Slut-shamed by my own girlfriend. Not cool, Blake Lastname.”

“It’s Belladonna.” Laughter seems to always be on the brink of escaping when she’s with Yang, and now is no exception.

“Oh, well, in that case.” With a practiced motion, Yang whips off her shirt — a light brown henley that clings to her biceps like it was made for them — and the laughter bubbling up pretty much immediately dies down. Underneath, Yang’s wearing a simple, black lace bra and it cups her breasts in a way that makes Blake feel a genuine jealousy for an inanimate object. If she had any self-awareness in the moment, she’d call it pathetic, but as it is, she mostly stares, gaze only dragged away when she realizes Yang has honest-to-god _abs_ , the clearly defined ones she’d always thought were reserved for actresses and athletes.

“That’s all it takes, huh?” she asks, throat dry, tone raspier than she might like.

“Oh, yeah. See, _Blake_ is nice, but _Belladonna_?” She gives the surname unnecessary flourish, the ‘l’s rolling off her tongue a bit too gracefully. “Wow, that’s like… you’re a famous actress and I’ve seen every single one of your films and I bought my first 4K tv so I could watch them all with my face like, _an inch_ from the screen, and _finally_ I’m getting to meet you for the very first time at some charity gala thing that I spent my life savings getting a seat at, and you take one look at me and just… hand me your empty champagne glass and dismissively ask me to bring another. And I say _of course_ , Miss Belladonna.”

Her amusement is back, but different than before.

“You’re a maniac,” she tells her, and Yang’s laughter finally erupts, filling up Blake’s chest with warmth, sliding right alongside the desire, synergistic rather than simply additive.

“Yeah, I know. Ridiculous, right? _You_ would _absolutely_ be the floundering fan. That flute of champagne is basically _trembling_ in your hands and you’re thinking about the _huge_ poster of superstar me that you had in your dorm room.” She nods, something mischievous in the slant of her mouth. “Yeah, let’s try that out instead. Say ‘ _Miss Xiao Long,’_ Blake.”

Yang’s voice is a low drawl, and Blake blushes. Again.

(She can see it in the glint in Yang’s eyes just as much as she feels it in the heat of her cheeks.)

The knock startles them both, and spurs them into action, undressing becoming less of a game and more of a requirement when Yang responds with a request for another minute more. She gives Blake one last significant look before turning around, granting the privacy Blake’s not totally sure she would have asked for (or wanted). It takes another moment before Blake can tear her gaze away from the muscles of Yang’s back (defined, just like the rest of her, muscles and otherwise). Once she does, she tries to focus: on her quick disrobing, on sliding under the sheet of the massage table and _not_ what would happen if she turned around, strode over, and tugged at Yang’s pretty blond hair until Yang slammed her up against the nearest wall.

When the masseuse returns and starts working on her, she says that Blake is carrying a lot of tension.

_Yeah, no shit._

“I guess I’ve been holding a lot in. As of very recently,” she says, and Yang’s laugh — sounding from the table over — is knowing.

 

—

 

(Knowing enough that when the massage is finished and they change into their robes, Yang saunters over — her smile lazy — and leans close.

“Be careful with letting that tension build for too long, Blake,” she murmurs. “It can’t be good for you.”

Blake — careless in her satiation — returns the look without thought or worry, and more than that, brushes her fingers lightly against the cloth belt holding Yang’s robe closed. “Oh, I don’t know. A little build up makes it all the better, don’t you think?”

Watching Yang’s throat bob with her swallow brings a deep satisfaction, but it only lasts for a moment, quickly overtaken by everything _else_ when Yang takes another step in. (Without her heels, Blake has to lift her chin a significant amount to meet Yang’s eyes; it openly bares her throat and she wonders how the cool metal of Yang’s prosthetic would feel against it.)

“I see the appeal.” She pauses. A muscle in her jaw flexes, visible in the angular cut of her face. “Don’t worry, babe. I can be patient for a good thing.”

And will have to be — for another while longer at least — because when the masseuse raps on the door with a reminder about the lemon water waiting for them, _her_ tone is knowing too.)

 

—

 

“So then Blake says, ‘but within the bounds of your innuendo, _that_ seems like an unnecessary amount of lube’.”

The porch erupts into laughter, covering up Blake’s rueful little groan, but not the wink Yang sends her way, lifting her aviators to make sure it’s on full display. They’re outside, lined up in chairs along the patio, feet soaking in warm water, pedicurists hard at work. If Blake weren’t so content — still boneless from the massage, despite the occasional spike into something a bit more active — she might have felt a bit guilty about the extravagance of it all, but as it is, she merely sinks into it, moving her fingers along the sharp metal plates of Yang’s right arm.

“I still don’t know much about cars,” Blake admits (honest about this, at least). “But since we’ve started dating, I’ve learned that there are _endless_ ways to make working on various parts of them sound dirty.”

Yang opens her mouth, quirk of her lips promising mischief, and Blake cuts in once more. “Don’t even say it.”

“Innocent before proven guilty, _Blake_ ,” she tsks. “You’re the _lawyer_. You should know that.”

“You’re a repeat offender. A history of terrible automotive puns.”

“And here I was thinking you liked it when I offered to pop your clutch.”

“I liked the follow-up,” Blake returns, rapidfire, resulting in another chorus of laughter (and one of Yang’s grins).

“Oh, you two are _cute_. How long ago was that? When you first met?” It’s one of Velvet’s sisters who asks, a chipper girl with the same large rabbit ears as her sibling, but ten times the gregariousness.

But as sweet as she is, Blake’s dry response is instantaneous, unable to be held back.

“Seems like just yesterday.” (And Yang can’t _quite_ hide her snort of laughter, either.) “But it’s been a few months now.”

“It’s been awful. Total drudgery,” Yang deadpans, not so much dodging Blake’s swat as catching it, infinitely gentle when she locks their fingers together, then blows her a kiss. “I have to look at _that_ face every day. It’s basically torture.”

“Torture because you know you’ll eventually have to look away,” Blake sighs, turning to the younger Scarlatina. “It’s embarrassing, really. She’s basically obsessed with me.”

“That’s ridiculous and on a totally unrelated note, I definitely wasn’t going to match the color of my nails to your dress.”

“You don’t even know what color it is.”

It’s a slip, but one that Yang recovers from without pause. “I would if you’d _tell_ me anything about it.” She rolls her eyes for the crowd’s benefit. “She hasn’t even let me _peek_. Went shopping without me and _everything_.”

“I wanted to have a dramatic reveal! To meet her in the banquet hall and watch her jaw drop, like we’re in a movie.” Blake explains, catching on with ease.

(But that’s par for the course with all things related to Yang, she’s coming to find: always easier than they should be).

“Babe,” Yang murmurs, and for a moment it’s _just_ them. For a moment Blake forgets about anything else. “Trust me. That happens every single time I see you.”

But they’re not alone and everyone reacts: a chorus of coos and expressions of delight.

Yang makes a great fake girlfriend, basically.

It should probably concern Blake, how quickly it occurs to her that she’d make great _real_ one as well.

 

—

 

A great girlfriend _and_ a great karaoker.

Blake should have known, really, just from the way Yang is: always ready to put on a show, always ready to please a crowd (or individual). She manages both when she walks up to the mic that night, voice dropping low as she dedicates her song to Blake, right before the scratchy guitar kicks in and she dives into a truly spectacular performance of _I Believe in a Thing Called Love_.

There’s an _excessive_ amount of hip thrusting and air guitar solos and falsetto, the latter of which Yang hits with enthusiasm and pizzaz, if not perfect pitch. At their table, Weiss drains the rest of her wine in a single gulp and buries her face in her hands, Ruby pounds on the tabletop and screams out her encouragement, and Blake somehow finds herself swayed towards something more in line with the reaction of the latter rather than the former, her wolf-whistle piercing through the chaos and resulting in even _more_ vigorous hip movement from Yang when it hits her ears.

It’s with thunderous applause — a honest-to-god standing ovation that only Weiss doesn’t participate in — that Yang finally steps down, faking a mic drop and jumping off the stage, skipping the stairs completely. But her eyes are only on Blake’s when she moves through all of it, until she’s standing right next to her, close enough for Blake to see that sweat is sticking her bangs to her forehead, plastering her shirt to her abs. Her cheeks are flushed, too, eyes wild with something that Blake _wants_ , or maybe craves.

“Hi,” she says (rasps), inaudible under the crowd around them, but Yang — eyes dropping down to Blake’s lips as soon as they open — gets the gist.

“Hey. Like it?”

Somewhere in the background, someone is shouting Yang’s name, but neither of them look away to find the source of it, and it’s hardly out of respect for their conversation; Blake has nothing left to say — too full of desire for action to make room for speech — and so she nods instead. Their inattention turns out to be a mistake, because when a ball of pink collides with Yang, they’re both caught off guard, and being ripped out of the moment is more jarring than it has any right being.

“That. Was. _Awesome_!”

It’s the orange-haired girl from earlier — Nora — who’d filled their entire ride to the spa with chatter that hadn’t registered much more than it did now, though Blake does her best to follow along, shaking her head to remove the lingering daze.

“I _knew_ we were going to be best friends when we were in the limo together and you said that thing about _cheese puffs_ , but now I _know_ know and you _have_ to sing _Summer_ _Nights_ with me because Ren _won’t_ and neither will Pyrrha and after that performance I _know_ you’re the only one with the raw power to keep up with me when I go into power ballad mode, so kiss your girlfriend good _bye_ and come _on_! I have eight shots of tequila on my table ready to _go_ and you can have three of them to prepare for the incredible performance we’re about to give this _entire_ , _wild_ crowd!”

“Um,” Yang says, and Nora slugs her in the shoulder, like they hadn’t just met that day.

“Let’s _go_ , Yang! We have a _duet_ to sing.”

“Did you actually agree to that?” Blake asks, and she swears there are spots in her vision from the way Nora is jumping about, hanging off of Yang’s arm.

“I don’t think so?”

“ _Yang_! Kiss and go!”

“Um.” Yang blinks rapidly. “Bye?”

And then her hand is on Blake’s hips and she’s leaning in, and pressing her lips to Blake’s skin — not quite her cheek, not on her lips, but some in between — and it’s enough that Blake is submerged in the heat of it, stumbling into a sauna, until it’s abruptly pulled away, Nora’s tug on Yang’s arm separating them. If her faculties had been present, she might have been annoyed or bewildered or amused, but as it is, she’s too overwhelmed to pick out any one emotion, staring blankly as Nora and Yang disappear in the crowd.

Ruby and Weiss are just where she left them, and much in the same mood; Ruby grinning, Weiss arching an eyebrow. For once, Blake doesn’t much feel like analyzing any of it, and sits down heavily, pushing her hair out of her face with an impatient swipe of her fingers, then drumming them on the table when she still feels antsy, energy coursing through her without an outlet.

“Blake,” Weiss begins, tone mild. “Do you remember that party during our last year of undergrad when Ilia made Jungle Juice with twice the normal amount of vodka? And we ended up on the roof of the library, alone, without any recollection of the night before, and wearing designer-brand clothing that we never found the origin of?”

“Yes.” And because they’ve been best friends for years, Blake knows _exactly_ what Weiss is getting at. “And _yes_.”

 

—

 

They’re _not_ in college any more, of course, which means Blake is old enough to know her limit.

But she hits the _very_ upper tier of it after her fifth mixed drink, around the time she loses track of Yang (something about a mechanical bull and Ruby and the bonds of sisterhood and blood oaths) and shortly _before_ Weiss stumbles back to their table, looking vaguely overwhelmed, but only in the best possible way. At that point, observation isn’t exactly a strong suit, but the pink that’s spread across Weiss’s pale skin hardly requires it, and — with tact being another thing lost to intoxication — Blake doesn’t hesitate to call her out on it.

“I guess Yang was right.”

She doesn’t bother hiding her smirk, either, letting it spread across her face with all the subtlety of a butcher knife. Weiss responds in kind, of course.

“Shut up, Blake.” But then she takes another look, spares her a second glance, some amusement creeping in. “Oh, you really are trying to match your Fall 2011 BAC levels, aren’t you? _And_ we have to wake up in four hours. Probably best we head back.”

There are a few objections she can think of at that, though the only one that really sticks is _Yang_ and her pretty eyes and sexy muscles and warm touch and —

“I saw Yang leave a little while ago,” Weiss adds, almost apologetic. “With Ruby and Nora and… “ She trails off, blush intensifying. “Pyrrha. I don’t think they’ll be back for a while. And you’ve never been a very pleasant person when you have a hangover.”

 _That_ Blake can’t argue with, and she stands — barely stumbling at all! — and stretches her back until it cracks. Returning to the hotel is somewhat _less_ impressive; it’s just around the corner from the bar, but she leans heavily on Weiss as they head back, laughter spilling from her lips at the jumble of memories that ricochet around her consciousness at the sight of the most inane things:

the numbers scrawled across her arm in what _might_ be permanent marker;

 

( _“Hey, girl, you come here often?” Yang asks — somewhere around drink number four — sliding through the crowd like it’s made of nothing but shadows, Yang the only one with any attributes worthy of notice._

_And it’s a game on top of a game, pretending to not know each other while pretending to date. It’s too confusing to contemplate when her blood feels saturated with alcohol, so she just grins and leans into it, physically and otherwise._

_“Not often enough, if you’re any indication of what’s usually here.”_

_Yang’s hands find her hips — settle low — over the fabric of her shirt, which is_ far _too long, she realizes now. If she’d gone with a halter — anything with more skin on display — she could have had skin on skin, but_ oh _, it’s still a lot, still too much and too little at once._

_“Not usually, no. But you know I’ll go anywhere you are. All you gotta do is summon me.”_

_“And how?” Blake breathes. “Will I do that?”_

_“Just call.”_

_She pouts, watches Yang trace over the fullness of her bottom lip with her gaze._

_“I don’t have your number.”_

_Yang laughs, loud enough to be heard, or maybe that has something to do with the people who laugh with her. They always seem to have an audience. Blake always seems to forget._

_Whatever. It still works. Their play within a play saving them._

_“I need a_ marker _,” Yang shouts and the laughter picks up_.

_“Come on. Stop flirting with your girlfriend for two seconds, Yang. We have another song coming up.”_

_Blake doesn’t recognize the voice, not that it particularly matters._

_“No! Marker first! Get me a marker!”_

_Miraculously, one appears, passed along a few hands and originating from who-knows-where. Yang removes the cap with her teeth and grins — with enough force to hit Blake in the knees — and holds Blake’s arm as she writes the ten digits with careful lines along the skin of her forearm. She adds a little heart at the end, and then — worse — her lips, brushing against the pulse point in Blake’s wrist, heart hammering under her skin at a million miles a minute._

_“Day or night, baby. I’m all yours.”)_

 

the remnants of a faint lipstick stain on Weiss’s cheek;

 

_(“Hey, Weiss, you’re gay, right?”_

_Weiss’s resulting stare is ice, only_ moderately _affected by the alcohol she’s been consuming. “Yes, but if you’re about to hit on me, let me assure you, I won’t hesitate to — ”_

_“Oh, ew, no.” Yang actually jerks back, and Blake bites her lip to hide her laughter at Weiss’s resulting expression._

_“Ew?_ Excuse _me, I’ll have you know — ”_

_“I’m only asking because Pyrrha’s totally been checking you out.”_

That _stalls Weiss, in a manner that’s surprisingly effective; Blake’s eyebrows lift as Weiss’s head jerks around, as though she thinks she’ll find Pyrrha right behind her. The laughter slips from her lips soon after that, and Yang joins in, Weiss scowling at the both of them._

_“Very funny.”_

_“I wasn’t being funny,” Yang insists, earnest in a way Blake finds endearing. “But your reaction was. Obviously you’re into her too. Go talk to her.”_

_“She’s — she’s an_ Olympic-level athlete _, Yang. I knew she worked with Coco on a line of sportswear, but I didn’t realize they were_ friends _. I can’t just walk up and — what would I even_ say _?”_

_Yang’s eyes flash, lighting up with humor, and Blake nearly laughs again — at that alone — in anticipation of what’s to come._

_“Okay, I have a brilliant idea.”_

_“Oh, god,” Weiss groans. “Spare me. I’ve seen what your ‘brilliant’ ideas look like.”_

_“Here’s the play,” Yang says, ignoring Weiss completely. “We’re going to give you a conversation starter. Blake, I need your lipstick.”_

_Her brow arches. “What makes you think I’m the type of girl to have lipstick on hand?”_

_“Please.” Yang holds her hand out, palm up. “All the time I spend staring at your lips? Like I don’t notice_ every _time you reapply.”_

_And sure enough, she’s staring at them now, when Blake lightly bites on her bottom one._

_“Babe,” she begins, aiming for chastising, but falling short at charmed. “That’s really_ gay _.”_

_“Oh, shit, really? I’m usually so subtle.”_

_Beside her, Weiss groans, pinching the bridge of her nose between her fingers, and Blake turns away to grab the requested lipstick, though her fingers linger when she drops it into Yang’s palm, and the resulting stare lasts for a second too long. But it gets worse when Yang removes the cap and slowly slides the tube across her own lips; the dark red color is hardly something Blake can imagine her picking out herself, but it still works — works well — and it’s with a flush that Blake imagines how the color would look on her own body (inner thigh, neck, breast) smeared in place by Yang’s mouth._

_So maybe it’s more than a little disappointing when the color finds its way to Weiss’s cheek instead, placed precisely with a smacking kiss._

_“What the_ hell _, Yang?” Weiss hisses, already furiously working at the mark with the back of her hand._

_“There. Now she knows you’re into girls.”_

_“What — that’s the — I’m — ”_

_Yang’s stare is entirely unconcerned as Weiss sputters — like she’s working through the five stages of grief — and leans back in her chair, arm stretching out to rest along the back of Blake’s._

_“You’re welcome,” she says._

_Weiss stands with a huff, turning her glare from Yang to Blake, which feels rather unfair, really._

_“I’m going to wash this off in the restroom. I_ expect _there to be an Old Fashioned waiting for me when I get back, by means of apology.”_

_She stomps off — as well as might be expected given the press of bodies around their table — and Blake watches her go, lips quirked in amusement._

_“You didn’t actually think that would work, did you?”_

_“I mean, Pyrrha’s table is right between ours and the restroom, she hasn’t taken her eyes off Weiss since we got here, and, in the few hours I’ve known her, I’ve figured out that she’s incapable of ignoring someone in distress, so… ” Yang shrugs, grin wide. “Yeah.”_

_“Weiss is sort of a_ third date _kind of girl,” Blake warns, but with a soft laugh._

 _“So? They can still_ talk _tonight. Get to know each other. That’s generally how it works.” She shoots Blake a look that she recognizes immediately, leaning in, responding in kind before the words are out. “And what about you, Blake? You a third date kind of girl?”_

 _“Based on our_ dating history _,” she drawls. “I can’t say I stick to the same conventions.”_

_“Good to know.” Yang’s hand slides along Blake’s shoulders, under her hair, fingers brushing up against her neck. “Definitely good to know.”)_

 

or the dark purple ribbon tied around her own wrist.

 

 _(The customized champagne comes out around midnight, something created specifically for the wedding that there’s no way_ anyone _in the bar is able to appreciate, given the overall level of intoxication. But the ribbon tied around the neck — dark purple, almost black in the lighting — certainly makes an impression on Ruby, who unties it with a shout of triumph and waves it in front of Blake’s face, excitement overflowing._

 _“It’s your_ color _!”_

_“Is it?”_

_She shares an amused look with Yang, who’s stretched out over two chairs, leaning into her side as she makes a pyramid out of shot glasses on their table. It’s probably bad form to take up an extra seat when space is limited, but Weiss has yet to come back from her bathroom excursion (a good sign, Yang says), and she’s ‘saving’ it for her._

_“Yeah! You’ve worn it both days we’ve been here!” She waves the ribbon around again before sliding it underneath Blake’s wrist. “That’s the first thing Yang said about you, you know, when she saw you at the welcome party. That she thought your dress was —“_

_“Ruby,” Yang cuts in, sitting up a bit straighter._

_“ — A really pretty color,” Ruby finishes, and Blake gives both her and Yang a look._

_“What did she really say?”_

_“I said that.” Yang smiles lazily, and sinks back into her slouch. “I said exactly that.”_

_Ruby finishes tying the ribbon in place, looping it around Blake’s wrist three times, knotting it without a bow._

_“She said some other stuff too,” Ruby admits, with a far slyer smile than Blake would have expected. “But I’ll let her tell you about that while I get another drink.”_

_“Ruby!” Yang groans, throwing her head back, and throws a balled up napkin towards her sister, far too late for it to reach the retreating woman._

_“Some other stuff, mm?” Blake leans in, chin on her hand, mouth crooked. “What kind of stuff?”_

_“I said, ‘oh, wow, that girl looks like she’d try to get answer out of me really obnoxiously’.”_

_“Try again.”_

_Yang sits up again, this time with purpose. She places her elbow on the table, close to Blake’s, and mirrors her posture, mirrors her expression. “I said, ‘you know what that girl wants to take away from this experience? A crazy wedding story about fake dating.’”_

_“Mm.” She shakes her head. “Still not convinced.”_

_On the third try, Yang leans close enough for Blake to feel her breath, scented with the tequila but not unpleasantly so, and runs a finger along the silk so recently placed around her wrist._

_“I didn’t say it,” she begins, voice low, “but I thought, ‘that girl looks like she’d like for me to tie ribbons around both her wrists. Nice and tight.’”_

_Blake flushes; it’s not embarrassment, just anticipation, and she sees the same thing in Yang’s hooded eyes._

_“Looks like I was right about one.”)_

 

Everything is Yang.

 _Yang. Yang. Yang._ The name pounds against her skull in time with her pulse, which is faster than it should be, alcohol and something else saturating her blood. She’s nearly dizzy with it, and maybe _that’s_ why finding her way to her suite is so difficult, using her keycard even worse. She’s battling two types of intoxication and it’s no wonder the ground is moving in directions it shouldn’t. She kicks off her heels as soon as she’s inside, reaches for the zipper of her dress next, even if the sound of the door closing behind her has yet to reach her ears.

“ _You_ need water.” Weiss is leaning up against the frame of the doorway when she looks back, her expression soft in a way it only ever is with Blake. “Get that first. Before you strip or sit down.”

“I know,” Blake grumbles, but follows the suggestion, returning from the bathroom with two large glasses, which she places beside her bed, Weiss’s eyes following her the whole way. “Happy?”

“Exceedingly. And Blake?” She waits until Blake is looking at her, until she has her attention. “You obviously know what you want here. Stop trying to rationalize it and… go after it.” Her smile tilts. “Though, maybe not tonight. Presumably you want to be sober enough to enjoy it.”

It’s all Blake thinks about, long after Weiss is gone, after she’s changed into an oversized shirt to sleep in and started on her water, glaring at her glass with each swallow. She thinks about it as she stares at the sharp black numbers drawn on her skin, twirling her scroll between her thumb and index finger, lips pursed. A call is out of the question, she knows; her alarm is set to go off in three hours and if she hears Yang’s voice, she’ll invite her over, Weiss’s (unfortunately _good_ ) advice be damned.

But.

There were other ways to use a number.

She enters the wrong digits twice, but manages it on the third try, double-checking against the Sharpie. She keeps it simple, doesn’t trust herself to manage more.

 

_Yang?_

 

And _god_ , the response is instantaneous, like Yang had been waiting, like there isn’t anything else on her mind.

(And maybe there isn’t. There certainly isn’t anything else on Blake’s.)

 

_Blake_

_How did you know it was me?_

_I didn’t write my number on your arm_

_I’ve been responding to every unknown number like that_

_Impressed?_

_Maybe_

_You get back okay?_

_Weiss said you took off so we left_

_Yeah_

_Sorry about that_

_Nora told Ruby about a mechanical bull nearby_

_Long story_

_I thought we’d be back sooner_

_But we’re still out_

_It’s okay_

_Just wanted to make sure_

 

Her bed is comfortable — of course, everything here is comfortable — and she sinks into the pillows propped up against the headboard, slides her bare legs underneath the sheets, not having to wonder why it feels so _nice_. She places her scroll down, right in her lap, and stares at the screen. There’s so much more she wants to say (to confess, to ask, to beg), but it feels like too much to fit into words, even if Weiss had been right.

She obviously knows what she wants.

And maybe that’s the best place to start.

 

_Yang?_

_Blake._

_I’m still here_

_Ruby is trying to stand on the bull_

_She’s doing pretty good actually_

_Nora nearly killed herself trying it_

_Of course_

_What is it?_

_I want you_

_You know that right?_

 

The pause is torturous. Not because she doesn’t know if Yang feels the same, but because she doesn’t know how Yang will tell her precisely that.

 

_I know_

_I want you too_

_A lot_

_How?_

_How do you want me, I mean_

_Baby_

_I want you every way a person can want someone_

_Any way you want me back_

 

She’s forgotten to breathe, it turns out, and her next inhale is a greedy gulp, audible in the quiet of the room, the only other sound the rustling of her sheets as her thighs brush against each other. She hadn’t forgotten about _that_ , of course: how wet she already is, to the point of discomfort. A few words — simple, not the slightest bit graphic — and she’s already there. Or maybe she’s been there all night. A steady, pulsing ache.

 

_Tomorrow_

_As soon as we get a minute to slip away_

_Yes_

_Please_

_God Blake_

_I’m going to make you cum until you shake_

_I’m going to do everything you’ll let me_

_I’ll let you_

_Anything_

_…_

_Fuck_

_Shit_

_Are you_

_What are you doing right now?_

_I’m trying to keep from touching myself_

_Fuck Yang I’m so_

_..._

_Wet?_

_Yeah_

_Before we started_

_I keep thinking about you_

_Doing what?_

_Everything_

_Going down on me_

_Putting your fingers inside of me_

_Bending me over_

_Fucking me against a wall_

_Tying my wrists like you said you would_

_…_

_Holy fuck_

_Blake_

_All of that_

_I promise_

_I’m going to fuck you until you can’t walk_

_Can’t stand_

_I can’t wait to taste you_

_Fuck you_

_Hear what you sound like when you moan my name_

_I’m gonna do so many things to you_

_You should think about all of them_

_..._

_You should touch yourself_

_Why are you even stopping yourself from doing it?_

_As soon as I’m alone I’m going to_

_Not even when I’m back at the hotel_

_Literally whenever I first get the chance_

_Now_

_Here_

_In this shitty bar with a shitty bathroom_

_How are you waiting?_

 

At that point, she’s not. Three lines in and her underwear is off, pushed impatiently down her legs, and her fingers are swiping at her entrance — cataloging her wetness, finding it severe — and thumbing at her clit.

 

_I’m not._

_Not anymore_

_Wait._

_Stop._

 

Blake moans, and god, she sounds filthy. No one here to hear — no show, just the truth — and it’s still desperate. But she stops. Waits.

 

_Why_

_Because_

_It’ll be better if I tell you what to do_

_You know it will_

_Yes_

_Then tell me_

_Now_

_Impatient_

_No wonder I’m gonna have to use restraints_

_Start slow_

 

And she does. The words blur on the screen, but Blake manages to translate, enough so that she can _hear_ Yang — her low voice, her growing want, the steel in her tone — when she tells her to start slow. To run her hands over her thighs, her breasts, to touch herself gently, with slow purpose. She tells her to rub her clit — but gently, at first — to not go faster, press harder, until she’s moaning out loud. And then. She makes her stop. To be good and _stop_. To move elsewhere, to push her shirt up, over her breasts. To lick her fingers (to suck on them) and tease a nipple, pinch it, to switch to the other. To pretend it’s Yang touching her (and Blake _does_ ), pressing her lips to every part of her she can reach.

Her hips are off the mattress by the time Yang tells her to spread her legs. To slide a hand back down to her cunt, a finger along her slit (to imagine its Yang’s finger, her tongue) and then inside. She has her start with one finger but adds a second quickly ( _I know how wet you are_ , Yang says, _I know you’re ready_ ), and _oh_ , Blake’s hips are moving involuntarily, needing more and faster as soon as Yang allows it, and as soon as she can press her palm to her clit she does.

But then — _oh god, oh fuck_ , she’s so _close_ — Yang tells her to wait. To hold on. That she can’t come until Yang tells her to. Not until the end of her countdown, all the way from ten. And Blake’s knees are trembling by the time she hits six. Shaking at three. She barely makes it to zero — _barely barely barely_ , only just hanging on, a stream of _pleasepleaseplease_ slipping from her lips even though there’s no one to hear, no one to take mercy (not that Yang would) — but when she does it’s — it’s never been like this. Not by herself, not with anyone else, not ever. She drops her scroll with the force of it, fingers clutching the sheets, back arching, toes curling. When she moans, it’s Yang’s name, just like Yang had said it would be ( _and when I get to zero and you cum, it’s going to be my name you shout_ ), just like Blake had known from the start.

And when she settles, back returning to the mattress, limbs splaying out, she runs her tongue over the roof of her mouth, wipes her fingers on the sheets, blindly reaches for her scroll, and tries to comprehend the notion of _tomorrow_ when she’ll get Yang alone and… feel more? Somehow? She _throbs_ at the thought — the impossible notion.

 

_Perfect baby_

_God_

_I know you look gorgeous when you cum_

_Fuck I can picture it_

_The way you’re lifting off that mattress_

_The noises you’re making for me_

_I bet you’re not usually this loud_

_But you were just now_

_You’ll be even louder for me_

_When I can fuck you for real_

_God damn Blake_

_Yang_

_That was_

_…_

_The best you’ve ever been fucked_

_Even though I’m not even there_

_Even though you had to do it yourself_

_Yes_

_Good_

_Imagine how good it’s gonna be_

_Tomorrow_

_I am_

_Me too_

_Did you get somewhere private?_

_Let me return the favor_

_Fuck babe_

_I wish_

_Pyrrha found me_

_I had to pretend to have a work thing_

_It was not convincing_

_And now the rest of them are coming over_

_Don’t worry_

_You’ll take care of me tomorrow_

_Yang_

_I want to get down on my knees for you_

_I want you to come against my mouth_

_Fuck_

_Yes_

_…_

_Tomorrow_

_Tomorrow_

_..._

_You gonna be able to sleep?_

_After that?_

_Yes_

_Easily_

_Good_

_Night babe_

_Goodnight Yang_

 

And she does. Sleep. Exhaustion comes with satiation and it hits her harder than she could have anticipated. She sinks into her sheets, nuzzles her head into the pillow, hums at the softness of it, brushing against her cheek. It’s easy to shut her eyes, to surrender herself to the comfort.

She doesn’t even bother to turn off the light.


	2. Chapter 2

Five o’clock in the morning isn’t a real time, particularly after consuming copious amounts of alcohol and acquiring three hours of sleep. Blake, who still feels drunk upon waking, stumbles out of bed _solely_ due to Weiss’s efforts: two separate wake-up calls and nearly a full minute of repeated tapping on the door. Once she makes it there, she tugs hard, forgetting the latch she somehow remembered to lock in place last night, and winces at the sound of the collision.

“Security latch.”

“I _know_.” And she has more to say too, ready to expel some of her ire at the person on the other side of the door until she _finally_ opens it and finds Weiss waiting with a steaming thermos, extended and ready.

“Black tea,” she explains, pushing it into Blake’s hand, and brushes past her without another word.

Blake reconsiders.

“I hate everyone but you.”

“I know,” she calls, already striding towards Blake’s bedroom. “You actually don’t look as bad as I thought you would this morning. Did you pack yet?”

“Do I need anything other than a bathing suit?”

“I’ll take that as a _no_.”

She follows Weiss, less purpose to her step, but slides into the master bathroom rather than deal with look Weiss levels at the bedroom as soon as she enters, as though the items strewn about the room would be shamed into organizing themselves by the sight of Weiss Schnee with her hands on her hips.

“Just throw whatever in my day bag.” She grabs her toothbrush. Spreads paste along the bristles. “The black leather case.”

It all feels… normal.

Typical.

After last night, it’s not what she’d been expecting, though she’s not entirely sure why. No one had ever thought a bit of simple sexting would move mountains, least of all her, practical to a fault (or so she’d been told, by an ex or two or three). So it shouldn’t feel _odd_ to have Weiss carrying on like normal, to busy herself with her morning routine, to get dressed in a rush and head down towards the lobby, to shove sunglasses in place and throw back a couple aspirin to combat the hangover.

But it _does_. She feels changed — a misaligned gear inside of her clicking into place, nudged into proper form by the slightest bump — a small action with far-reaching effects. And that doesn’t feel silly at all when they make it downstairs and Yang is there waiting, aviators in place, hair tied up in a messy ponytail, lips lifting upwards as soon as she spots Blake, a pointed meaning in the slant of her mouth.

“Morning,” Yang raps, voice rough with a lack of sleep (and something else — everything else — just for Blake). “You ready for our _mystery trip_?”

“ _Is_ it a mystery trip for you?” Weiss sniffs. “Because you seem to know a decent amount about it. Also, your sister does _not_ seem well. Do you need to _do_ something about that?”

“I know a few things,” Yang says, and then, just as breezily. “She’ll be _fine_. She’s not much of an alcohol person usually. And we didn’t really sleep. So she’s just resting.”

Resting against one of the decorative palm trees in the lobby, apparently. And wearing the largest sunglasses Blake has ever seen. With her hood up, it’s nearly impossible to see _any_ part of Ruby’s face, but there’s a sound emanating from the woman that’s either a snore or a persistent, soft groan. Blake’s never been one for the zombie genre, but a creature of the living dead is the closest approximation she can make to Ruby’s current state.

The worst of it (though Blake feels _vaguely_ bad thinking it) is that, in movement, Ruby is even worse, essentially worthless. She slumps against Yang — placing the whole of her body weight against her side — as they walk to the limo and, once inside, collapses against the seat, the entirety of her torso across Yang’s lap. It’s cute, honestly, the clear comfort and closeness between the two, despite their endless physical and personality differences, and normally Blake would be the first one to say so.

Except that she’s pretty sure it’d be in poor form to lean over Ruby to casually ask her sister if she’d like to absolutely _rail_ her this afternoon, at her earliest convenience (please and thank you).

So there’s that.

 

—

 

The private jets are a surprise, Blake can admit to that.

There’s a fleet of them waiting when they arrive at the hanger, each large enough to fit a sizeable number of guests. Whether through luck or Coco (though Blake suspects the latter), the four of them are on the same plane, seated alongside each other. The luxury is beyond any commercial flight Blake’s ever been on, even on the occasion when Weiss had bumped her to first class (typically without informing her of the change). The flight attendants address them by name, only ask for confirmation on their previously supplied drink orders, and have a full array of pastries and donuts and bagels (all homemade, they’re assured) ready for their consumption.

There are worse ways to travel.

“Do you have syringes of caffeine?” Yang asks one of the purple-clad women, her voice like gravel, sunglasses sitting slightly crooked on her nose. “You’re gonna have to inject it directly into my bloodstream. My life is honestly in your hands.”

The woman laughs, and Blake is surprised to find that the sound grates on her, almost as much as the woman’s voice — low like she has a secret — when she leans in and gives Yang a wink.

“I’ll see what I can do, Miss Xiao Long.”

Blake watches her go, chewing at the inside of her cheek and attempts to find a rational explanation for her annoyance. She finds one, but doesn’t like it, blames it on the hour instead. But she also places her hand on Yang’s wrist, fingers wrapping around with a possessiveness she doesn’t have a right to, but feels anyways. It’s the first time she’s touched her — touched her purposefully — since yesterday, and the shock of it is enough to jerk her awake, far more than her tea managed. Yang’s smile curls slowly, and Blake wonders if she’s thinking about what she made those fingers do just a few hours earlier.

Blake certainly is.

“Something wrong, Blake?” she asks softly.

Jealousy isn’t cute. It’s never cute. But Yang doesn’t appear to mind, if her expression — pleased, a little smug — is any indication.

“No one much likes seeing their girlfriend hit on.” She keeps her tone light; it’s easy to hide behind their charade, but then, they’re past that, aren’t they? “Maybe someone should tell her you’re spoken for.”

“Or show her,” Yang suggests, teasing (but only mostly). “Use that pretty glare on her face, rather than letting her back take the hit.” She runs the fingers of her prosthetic over Blake’s hand, encouraging the placement rather than suggesting she let go. “It’s kind of… hot, actually. You’ve got a _great_ bitch face.”

Blake laughs, surprised. It’s loud enough to make Ruby — on the other side of Yang — turn in her sleep, swing out her arms, and smack Weiss directly in the face. She turns to glare, but, finding no comfort in scolding the unconscious, levels it on Blake instead.

“I’ve never really thought about it, since I’m best friends with the _master_.” She nods towards Weiss, whose expression immediately clears, the roll of her eyes a familiar reset.

“That’s _not_ what she meant.” Absently, she runs a finger around the rim of her now-empty espresso glass. “And I swear to _god_ if you two try to fool around under a blanket while I’m sitting _right_ here, I kill you both and then move onto your family members.”

“Oh, now _that’s_ an idea,” Yang murmurs, and Blake’s seat might as well have dropped out from underneath her, heart jumping into her throat, pulse pounding strong.

“Death,” Weiss promises again. “It _will_ look like an accident and it _will_ be extremely painful.” She pulls out a book from her purse, swats Ruby’s arm away when it randomly jerks in her direction again. “Honestly, you’re not sex-addled teenagers. _Surely_ you can wait for the daily activities to be over. Tonight you’ll have a room to yourselves and... “ She shakes her head once, sharply. “Jesus _Christ_ I can’t believe I’m discussing this with you. Just _control yourselves_ in public. While I’m _here_. Right _next to you._ ”

The threat doesn’t really do much to curb anything, but the humor of the situation does; Blake’s fingers relax on Yang’s arm, resting lightly on her pulse point, and some of her want settles back down, enough to feel manageable.

“Miss Xiao Long?” The attendant is back, but that feels easier too, though that likely has something to do with the metal finger stroking gently along her arm, tracing the shadows of the numbers Yang had drawn on her skin the night before, remnants that soap hadn’t been able to remove. “I wasn’t able to find the intravenous injection. We’ll have to start with this.”

Yang leans back to allow her to place the mug in front of her, rather than still her tracing, maintaining contact past the point of convenience.

“Thanks. I think I'll be alright. But could we get a blanket? I just got a _great_ idea about how me and the girlfriend might regain some of our stamina.”

“I _will_ chop off your hands,” Weiss says, not bothering to look up.

“A good nap,” Yang continues, smile innocent as the flight attendant nods, gaze shifting over to Blake’s thinly veiled amusement, before returning to Yang. “We’ve got a few hours before we get there, right?”

“Of course. I’ll bring that right away.”

Blake’s soft laugh escapes her as the woman moves away, and Yang’s smile quirks, pleased at her mirth.

“God, Weiss. You’re really giving people the wrong impression about us, you know?”

Not to be baited, Weiss only shakes her head. “ _Please_ feel free to prove it.”

 

—

 

The mystery location is an island.

But that’s not quite doing it justice.

It’s a private island: one with clear water, pristine beaches, overwater bungalows, and blue skies. The heat of the sun is steady in its presence, but not oppressive, especially with the cool breeze filtering through, ruffling the leaves of the palm trees scattered about, almost strategic in their placement, but seemingly not artificial. Blake smells the salt in the air and thinks of home, sucks in another breath to take it in again, deeper this time.

Ruby, recovered from her earlier stupor, jumps out of the plane as soon as she’s able, skipping the last four steps with an enthusiastic leap, and throws her arms out, wide like a starfish, greeting their surroundings with a bright smile.

“The beach!” She shouts, then spins in place, turning her grin on the three women following at a more sedate pace. “We’re at the beach!”

“I already told you where we were going, goof.” Yang ruffles her hair as she passes (other hand remaining locked with Blake’s, fingers intertwined). “Sister privileges.”

“No girlfriend privileges, I see.” Blake tsks.

Yang winks. “You’ll get those later, babe.”

They’re in paradise, basically.

It’s probably a little ungrateful to will the sun to set faster.

 

—

 

There shouldn’t be anything particular noteworthy about Yang in her swimsuit.

Blake had seen her strip to her bra just a day earlier. And there are women all around them, most wearing far skimpier things than Yang’s black bikini with its gold trim around the edges — made up of more fabric than most — keeping things from becoming overly indecent.

And yet.

Somehow.

Despite all that.

When Blake steps onto the beach, hand lifted to shield her eyes from the sun, and catches sight of her standing in the middle of a volleyball court — twisting one way and then the other, muscles in her stomach flexing with the movement — she nearly drops the two daiquiris she’d broken away from Yang and Ruby to grab after the quartet had changed.

(A mistake, she realizes now; she and Weiss had run into Velvet and stayed to chat, which is why she hadn’t had a chance to ease herself into this, hadn’t watched Yang remove her tank top and shorts, the last thing Blake had seen her in before departing. Or maybe that would have been worse. Torturous? Blake can’t be sure, but she’s full of resentment over not being able to witness the spectacle and decide for herself.)

The initial jolt passes down her spine, straightening it to the point of tension, before it settles low in her stomach, warm and coiling and insistent. Yang’s skin isn’t quite dry — she’d apparently tested the temperature of the water as soon as she’d arrived — and the droplets of seawater collect in the most pleasant of places, which Blake’s eyes map with a sort of obsessive insistence: a need to explore each curve and dip, to chart and record. Yang’s taken off her prosthetic and there’s something too, in the way she smiles at the others on the court — unabashed, undeterred — when she flicks the ball up in her left hand and spins it around on her finger. That confidence just adds to it all, highlights the pull of her shoulder blades when she turns away to serve, shows off the dip at the center of her back that disappears beneath the low waistband of her bikini.

“You know, I’m pretty sure the only people who’re _allowed_ to look at each other like _that_ during this weekend are me and Velvet. Just on principle.”

It takes an extended moment for Blake to turn away — blinking rapidly — to find Coco staring at her over her glasses, expression matching her tone, wry and amused.

“Ah — sorry?”

“I mean, I hate to detract from a woman openly lusting after her girlfriend, but stealing the inappropriate public horniness spotlight from the brides?” She shakes her head, smile slanting. “Very uncool, Blake.”

Blake must look stricken, because Coco laughs, and pats her on the shoulder. “Only joking, kid. As if I’d stand in the way of _that_.” She nods back towards the volleyball court, and Blake follows her gaze, only to immediately have _everything_ knocked out of her again. “I do feel bad for whoever has the bungalow next to yours. The thatching isn’t exactly soundproof.”

She’d have blushed if the words had registered at all, but as is, they slide right off. Yang is looking their way now — looking _her_ way — walking towards her with intent, and there shouldn’t be anything particularly noteworthy about the way she’s looking at Blake in her swimsuit, either, but _god_ , there _is_. She hadn’t bought it to impress, not really (not consciously), but she can _feel_ Yang’s eyes trace along each cut-out — roam over the brown skin revealed by the holes in the white fabric — and she knows she did something _right_. Really, _really_ right.

She also knows, right about then, that she’s an _idiot_.

Because she’s wanted Yang since she first laid eyes on her and _why_ hadn’t she done anything about it yet?

“Hey.” The look in her eyes isn’t gone, even when she meets Blake’s, and there’s a strain to her smile, an edge to it that Blake recognizes, has seen several times over the past few days, and now it feels unbearable to witness and do nothing about.

What were they _waiting_ for?

“Hi.”

She barely gets the word out; her throat is dry and only then does she remember their drinks, glasses sweating in her hands, a condition caused by the sun, surely, but the unbearable heat under her skin — desire boiling over — has to have contributed in some way. She offers one to Yang, who takes it, placement of her fingers careful enough that they don’t overlap Blake’s, don’t brush against them when she pulls away. Blake’s disappointment is as intense as it is pathetic, and she feels suddenly overwhelmed with the certainty that she’s not going to make it through another day without taking Yang to bed.

“Thanks,” Yang murmurs and nudges the glass straw aside with her nose, gulping directly from the rim, tilting her head back slightly. With each swallow her throat bobs.

There’s a bandana tied around her neck, whose color — a dark purple — would clash on another person wearing the same swimsuit. Blake finds herself hating the way it hides part of the hollow of Yang’s throat, finds herself feeling envious of the way it rests there, pressing against the skin. The itch in her own throat worsens and she follows Yang’s example, pouring the drink back with a speed she doesn’t typically enjoy, but right about now, most definitely needs.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen Coco smile that wide.” Yang licks her lips when she lowers her glass. “Wanna share the joke?”

“What?”

Yang’s eyebrow lifts. “Just now? Before she went to talk to Velvet?”

Right. Because Coco had left. Sometime. During the time it had taken Yang to walk over. When she searches for the memory, she can’t find it, lost instead in the play of muscles behind skin, the sharp cut of hip bones.

“Oh. She was just — ” Blake shakes her head, searching for relief from the swarm of her thoughts. “— Talking about my swimsuit.”

It doesn’t make any sense. Not really. Maybe not at all. But Yang nods.

“About the weird sunburn those cutouts will give you?” Her grin is sharp, cuts deep somewhere below Blake’s naval. “I was thinking about that too. You all lotioned up?”

“Uh huh,” Blake says.

It’s a lie, but one born out of necessity. The mere notion of saying ‘no’, of having Yang offer to _help_ — hands sliding under the straps of her swimsuit, warm and rough against her skin — rushes through her every nerve and neuron, fairly effectively frying whatever processing power she has left. She can only imagine the damage anything more than thoughts would do.

(If Yang were to touch her like _that,_ right _then_ , Blake would drop to the ground and pull Yang on top of her, heedless of the spectators around them. Beg for her fingers, her mouth, her _thigh_ , anything she could fuck herself on until the concept of breathing became foreign. And then plead for it again, harder, Yang pressing her into the sand, every grain leaving a permanent imprint on her skin.)

“Yang — ”

“YANG, YOU DUMBASS, WE’RE DOWN A MAN BECAUSE YOU CAN’T KEEP IT IN YOUR PANTS! GET OVER HERE!”

“Oh my god,” Yang groans.

“Nora is — ” Blake clears her throat, takes one step back. “The worst friend you’ve ever made.”

“You’re not wrong,” she murmurs, and then — her voice dropping, letting everything loose — closes the gap Blake’s just made. “And, Blake? I haven’t forgotten my promise. I _am_ going to fuck you until you can’t stand. And it’s going to be as soon as we can get away from everyone here.”

She jogs away, backwards, keeping her eyes on Blake’s for longer than she should.

(Not for long enough.)

Blake pushes her cut-offs down, kicks them aside, and strides towards the ocean, hopes it will somehow be _cold_.

 

—

 

While it’s true that Blake’s always been somewhat particular about the company she keeps, she’s never found the word _misanthrope_ to be especially accurate. Now, though, she’s starting to rethink her position on the matter.

The wedding guests have spread out around the island, taking part in the wide variety of activities offered (jet skiing, four wheeling, snorkeling, sunbathing, drinking), but despite the distribution, there’s always _someone_ around, demanding her attention or Yang’s, appearing just when Blake thinks they’ll have a moment alone, and her patience is starting to run thin (or maybe it simply ran _out_ somewhere around twelve hours ago).

“And _then_ you put the frisbee on top of the stick and run around it _three_ times, switch to your _other_ foot and hop in a figure eight shape, then drop down on the ground and roll to the next gate.”

Like now. When Nora is teaching them the rules of _Noraball_ , rules which seem to change each time she goes back to clarify one of them. And normally that would be humorous, probably, but Yang’s fingers are stoking along Blake’s lower back, tracing along one of the smaller cut-outs of her suit, and that’s demanding most of her attention.

“Once you’re at _next_ gate, you get back up and sing a line from a song from your favorite musical — RENT is forbidden because of reasons I will not discuss or be baited into rationalizing — before dropping into an army crawl all the way to the finish line.”

When she finishes, Nora puts her hands on her hips, elbows jutting straight out, chin lifted with the force of her pleased smile.

“We have _no idea_ what we’re supposed to be doing here, right?” Blake murmurs, and watches Yang’s smile curl.

“We absolutely do not.”

Blake laughs — softly, only a puff of air — but it’s enough.

“And _you two_ are on separate teams,” Nora continues, but it’s only until there’s a _pause_ afterwards, stretching on long enough to be awkward, that Blake looks over and realizes Nora is talking to _them_. “ _Yeah_ , you two. Otherwise you’ll just make sex eyes at each other the whole time. Let’s _go_. Blake, you’re with my team. Yang, you’re with Pyrrha’s.”

Yang sighs, letting her head tilt back. “We’ve been found out, babe. End of the road for us.”

“Mmm. Well. Kiss for luck?”

She’s pushing it, too close to Yang to make the words sound playful (or anything other than full of want).

“Well, I want to.” Yang turns, steps in. Leans down. Leans _in_. Blake sucks in a breath and stills, hands falling to Yang’s hips, but Yang doesn’t move and she _waits_.

“But?”

“ _But_ the first time I kiss you,” Yang breathes, lips nearly brushing against the lobe of Blake’s ear. “I don’t want it to be anything but ours.”

It’s sweet. Blake’s probably a little too aroused to appreciate it, fingers curling around Yang’s waist instead, keeping her close.

“Then let’s leave. Now.”

She’s past the point of politeness, of waiting, of _caring_ about anything but _release_.

“We’re in the middle of — of the game. And there’s — the hot air balloon ride. At sunset.” Yang’s eyes are dark and her cheeks are flushed and her words are jumbled; Blake hadn’t needed confirmation that Yang was just as tortured by lust as she was, but here it is, displayed in a multitude of ways. “We’ll miss it.”

(It’s barely past two, but there’s no question that they’ll still be occupied then.)

“I don’t care.”

Yang bites her lip _hard_ ; Blake can see the imprint when she releases it.

“Um. Yeah.” She clears her throat, raises her voice. “We’re gonna sit this one out, actually. Sorry, Nora.”

There are some groans. A few jeers. Probably. Maybe. Blake doesn’t really know. Or care.

“Room?” she asks instead, the word nearly a groan.

“Yeah.” Yang nods. Takes her hand. Tugs. “ _Yeah_.”

 

—

 

She’d expected there to be a moment — once they were finally alone — when the built up tension ( _finally_ ready to be released, pressed too long against a glass they’d refused to break) would falter. That the silence would fall on top of them, oppressive and heavy, while they were unable to do anything but stare.

But it’s not like that at all.

Yang pushes open the door to their bungalow (a stunning over-water structure that Blake had hardly noticed before and certainly doesn’t notice now) and strides inside; Blake shuts it behind her and follows and… doesn’t stop. There’s no wall to push through, no awkwardness to navigate. She follows and Yang turns and she’s pushing up onto her toes and Yang is bending down and they’re kissing.

It’s so _easy_ — the way her hands press flat against Yang’s ribs, how Yang’s hands cup her cheeks — that she thinks they must have done this before. Sometime. Somewhere. But they couldn’t have because she’s been burning from the inside out for the past couple days, fire in her nerves, anywhere from fifty to ninety-nine percent of her brain occupied by lust, and now ( _now, now, now_ ) she’s doesn’t feel _relief_ , exactly — the want is only growing — but something akin to it, something that gives a clarity in it, the desire no longer a distraction, but a goal. Something to strive towards, sink into.

And _oh_ , does she sink into it. Her body fits against Yang’s, already skin against skin, temperature noticeably higher in the small spaces that exist between them, but only briefly, closed by the bend of Yang’s spine, the roll of Blake’s hips. One of Yang’s hands — the right, and even the metal feels warm — slides down to tug at the shoulder of Blake’s swimsuit, pulling the strap down over her shoulder blade, and Blake sucks in a breath, feels Yang’s mouth follow the inhale.

“This is coming off,” Yang says, words spilling into soft groans. “All those fucking _cut-outs_ teasing me all day. Fuck, I was about to lose my mind.”

Blake shakes her head, pulls her lips away, feels her muscles (her mouth her skin her hands her _everything_ ) protest the action. But (somehow) she’s firm with words and hands, pushing Yang until the backs of her legs hit the edge of the bed.

“No.”

“No?” When Yang repeats the word, it’s not quite a challenge, but it’s certainly on the verge of one. Blake doesn’t care. Wants to push. Wants to feel their boundaries flex and bend. She wants to be taken (desperately wants to be taken, again and again and again), but she wants this too, the edge in Yang’s voice, building up over time, spilling over when she hits the breaking point.

“After last night? I’m fucking you first.” She fits her hand to Yang’s hip, pushes her _down_. Yang sits; her eyes are wide, pupils blown, but the smugness of her smile doesn’t abate, even when she looks up at Blake. “I said I’d get on my knees for you, didn’t I?”

“Oh, fuck. You don’t hav — ”

“I want to.” And she does. She hadn’t noticed — hadn’t cared — but the floor is a mix of hardwood and glass, showing the clear ocean water underneath them, and she kneels on the latter, material cool and smooth against her skin. (A snorkeler would _certainly_ get a view, she thinks, but knows she probably wouldn’t stop, even if someone drifted underneath.) “I want to take these off with my teeth,” she adds, running her hands up Yang’s thighs, toying with the tied ends of her bikini.

“You can. You should.” And _there._ That smugness slips away, leaving only want in its wake. “But I—”

Yang cuts herself off, bends down and kisses her again, just as insistent, but somehow still soft — softer than Blake’s expecting — no biting or tugging, only the gentle pressure of her mouth (her tongue). When she pulls back — all the way — her hand stays on Blake’s cheek and the touch holds the same level of care. Yang’s saying something here, and Blake understands. Is grateful.

But she’ll also die if she doesn’t taste her soon.

So maybe she’s a little _less_ gentle when she nips at Yang’s inner thigh and then her hip and (finally) the tie of her bikini, grasping it between her teeth and tugging sharply. It still tastes of salt — evidence of Yang’s brief time in the ocean, though her skin has long since dried — and it’s loosened enough to come apart easily, which is good, because Blake has distraction enough. (Yang’s hands have slipped into her hair, stroking through the strands, barely avoiding her ears; her legs are spreading, involuntarily, and the heat radiating from her is palpable; and Blake’s own pulse is _thunderous_ , pounding against her temple so loudly, it’s nearly all she can hear… outside of _every_ noise that Yang makes, all of which she’s _so_ finely attuned to, they bypass everything else.) Any genuine obstruction would have been near impossible to overcome.

“Shit,” Yang breathes, and Blake _has_ to look up — in the middle of her mouth moving across Yang’s abs, on her way to the other tie — to see the way pleasure is contorting her face (the delay is worth it; Yang’s lips are parted, and her expression is open, no attempts made to block just how turned on she is). “You’re — fuck, you’re so _hot_ , Blake.”

She finds the other tie and pulls that too. It comes off just as easy — all of it is so _easy_ — and she reaches up between Yang’s legs, trailing her fingertips lightly along her skin on the way, and removes the fabric. Yang lifts her hips and lets out a loud breath.

“Apparently.” Because Yang is wet enough that removing the bikini is _lewd_ , cum darkening the inside, stringing as Blake pulls it away. “Already?”

“Yeah.” Her swallow isn’t subtle. Neither is the next lift of her hips, no longer out of helpfulness, but desperation. “But that’s not — it’s been _all_ day, baby.”

(All _weekend_ , really. And it’s not like Blake can say otherwise about her own readiness.)

Blake swipes a finger along Yang’s cunt — no pressure in the places Yang needs it — and lifts it so they can both see, rubs her thumb back and forth against it, as though she needs to be sure, as though Yang isn’t absolutely soaked to the point that it would have been apparent from across the room.

“ _Blake_.” There’s something new in Yang’s voice then — a warning — and Blake thinks she’s found that breaking point. She has to bite her lip to resist the impulse to start the fracture, to shatter the whole of it and experience the fallout. But that’s for later. When they both aren’t so keyed up that _release_ is the main goal rather than prolonging pleasure.

When Blake closes her mouth around Yang’s clit, Yang’s hips lift fully off the edge of the bed, one of her hands falling out of Blake’s hair so she can brace herself against the wooden frame, the other staying in place, strands caught in her curling fingers, her tightening fist. Blake leans into it, rhythm dictated by the roll of Yang’s hips and the less-than-subtle tugs on her hair, and picks up the pace of her strokes when the sounds escaping Yang’s lips shift from pants to groans.

It’s _beautiful_ , hearing her lose control, and Blake’s already anticipating the next time, when she can see it too. (There’s no doubt about the next time. There’s no doubt, even, that it’ll take place in this same room. In the same time frame. Her thoughts are racing ahead — all the possibilities overwhelming — Yang’s moans the sort of inspiration that artists dream of.) But _now_ is good too. _Now_ is Yang starting to say her _name_ , breathless little pants that break it up into more syllables than it rightfully has: two and then _three_ (the hard ‘k’ stuttering out over Yang’s lips), when Blake slides two fingers inside.

“Fuck, baby, your _mouth_.”

Yang tightens around her fingers, right leg trembling under Blake’s palm, flat against her thigh, and it’s obvious she’s not far off. A little more pressure, the slightest curl of her fingers, and Yang’s lifting off the edge of the bed, falling apart against her mouth with a cry (a combination of curses that make little sense, but gets the point across just fine). Blake doesn’t stop — doesn’t remove her hand or still her tongue — until Yang moans turned pained, and she falls back against the mattress, hand leaving Blake’s hair and tangling in her own.

“Holy fuck,” she gasps. “Jesus. Blake.”

Blake stands — unsteadily, but Yang’s hardly in a state to notice — and wipes her fingers on her thigh, runs her tongue along the ridges of her teeth, biting the tip of it, hoping the slight pain will push back her crowding lust, at least enough to give Yang a _moment_ to recover.

It doesn’t work, but then, Yang doesn’t need much time either, blinking her eyes open and sitting back up, both hands flat on the bed, bracing her weight against her forearms, muscles there still distracting, even with _everything_ else on display.

“Good?” Blake asks, knowing the answer, but wanting to see Yang’s reaction: a lazy grin that spreads across her face, hits her eyes.

“You know, that thing was _designed_ to make me want you. Not that you needed the help.” She nods to Blake’s swimsuit, taking her time with the view, eyes following each curve and patch of skin. “But take it off and, _yeah_ , I’ll _show_ you how good.”

The strap Yang had pulled down earlier is still hanging off her shoulder, and Blake pushes the other side down — too impatient to make a show of it — then strips off the rest, kicking it aside, Yang’s intent stare stoking the fire, gasoline on an open flame. Yang reaches behind to untie the top of her bikini, then to her neck to remove the bandana still tied around her throat, and throws both on top of Blake’s one-piece. And _oh_ , Blake’s staring now too.

“Come here,” Yang says, a firmness to her tone (one that Blake has already pictured — thought about — while reading her texts the night before).

Three short strides and she’s there, standing in front of her. She knows the insides of her thighs are wet (glistening) and Yang does too (can feel it) when Blake places one knee and then the other on either side of her thighs, kneeling just over her lap. Yang’s hands rest lightly on the outsides of her thighs — patient, now that she’s been taken care of — and Blake tries not to whine, swallows to keep the sound from escaping her throat.

“You wanted my fingers inside of you?” It’s hardly a question, but Blake nods, one sharp jerk of her chin, and her entire body tenses, clenches.

Yang slides her hands up and down Blake’s skin a few times, before dipping her left hand between them, right under Blake’s cunt, middle and index fingers curling upwards.

“Yours for the taking,” she murmurs, holding Blake’s gaze.

Blake doesn’t hesitate. And she doesn’t look away as she sinks onto them, bracing her hands on Yang’s shoulders, fingernails digging into the lightly freckled skin, lowering her hips until Yang is three knuckles deep. It’s been so long — so torturously long — that she nearly comes right then, from that alone, a choking sort of cry falling from her lips when she rolls her hips for the first time and Yang’s fingers adjust, catching on _just_ the right spot.

“Yang — ” She has more to say — to demand — but the words stick in her throat when Yang leans in and fits her mouth to her neck.

“More?”

“More.”

And when Yang adds a third finger she _bites_ , too, almost certainly leaving a mark; Blake’s hips jerk so sharply she’s pushed forward — forearms bracing against Yang’s shoulders — and Yang’s free hand slides to the small of her back, keeping her in place. Blake can hardly keep track of it all, mind a mess of thoughts rapidly circling around the very notion of desire (or just _Yang_ ; the two are synonymous now), anything else swept away in the whipping winds that result. She is a vessel for only two things: the sensations she feels when Yang touches her and the nearly autonomous rock of her own hips as she fucks herself against Yang’s fingers.

It’s not a surprise that she comes soon after (comes hard) nor that she nearly sobs with the force of it, eyes shutting tight as she curls into Yang’s front. Her senses slip away from her briefly — a long second of sensory deprivation — but then return in a rush: Yang’s fingers slipping out of her the first feeling she catalogues, but then the soft kisses to her jaw, the cool metal of the hand at her back, the press of their chests against each other.

Blake’s panting, she realizes then, breaths heavy, and she pushes against Yang to sit up more fully, to better draw air into her lungs. It’s not especially effective, because when she pulls back she can see Yang’s face, and the rotation of emotions she finds on display is breathtaking. (How can someone look so _soft_ after fucking her so well?)

“Yang, that was — ” She lets out a slow breath.

“Good?” Yang asks, clearly pleased with herself at the callback — and Blake can’t fault her for it can’t fault her for anything right about now).

Blake nods, because it’s probably too soon to tell Yang the full of it. It’s too soon to be _feeling_ the full of it, but Blake _is_ and there’s little she can do about _that_.

“You know it was,” she groans. “I’m never moving again.”

“I can work with that.” Her hands move to Blake’s thighs, sliding underneath them and lifting; Blake yelps as she stands, though the movement is fluid, and locks her ankles behind Yang’s back, curls her arms around around her neck. “Where to?”

Laughter spills from her lips — directly against Yang’s neck — face pressed against the warm skin.

“Bed,” she says. “Where else?”

“I dunno, but I’m thinking we’re going to defile _several_ locations in this place before we leave.” She can hear the grin, feels one of her own form in response.

“Not before we _nap_.”

“Oh, I _knew_ I liked you.” Yang shifts — freeing up her right hand to knock the decorative pillows off the bed and pull back the sheets — and sets Blake down (only showing any particular care with her actions at the very end).

“Glad to finally meet your approval,” Blake murmurs, reaching up, pulling Yang down alongside her. “Took a while.”

“Mm, somewhere in the range of five to ten seconds after meeting you.” She wraps a hand around Blake’s hip, tugs her close. “You could’ve done better.”

“I’ll work on that,” Blake says. “For the next time I’m rejecting some moron and trying to impress a pretty girl at the same time.”

Her hand finds Yang’s cheek, thumb sliding along the curve of her smile as it grows. She feels lazy, careless, no caution behind her actions. It feels incredible. (Utterly new.)

“On _second_ thought, you were perfect. No more practice necessary.”

Blake tsks. “Fickle.”

“Nah.” Yang shuts her eyes with a sigh. Blake doesn’t, greedily takes in every line, curve, hollow of her face instead. “Just easily swayed by beautiful women asking me to pretend to be their girlfriend for the weekend.”

“I don’t think I ever really asked.” She’s whispering now, settling into the mattress, feeling her own bonelessness more acutely.

“I guess you didn’t have to.”

She’s getting the feeling that with Yang, that’s often the case.

 

—

 

When she wakes, the light in the room is softer, but not gone. She blinks against it, and shifts into the warmth at her back, memories and understanding trickling back, slow and pleasant. Yang is already awake — the pads of her fingers stroking up and down Blake’s side, temporarily aimless in their movement — and when Blake stirs, she kisses at the spot just behind her ear, nips once at the lobe.

“Thank _god_. I’ve basically been dying over here. Wasting away.”

“Mmm?” She turns, finds Yang’s eyes bright and teasing and close.

“We missed lunch.”

“I still ate. Out.”

Yang laughs, eyes squinting with the force of it. “That was bad, babe.”

“I just woke up.” She rolls out her neck, watches Yang stare. “I should get a free pass for bad puns.”

“I’ll give you two.”

With a little push, Yang has her on her back, leaning over and taking her in, eyes mapping out the skin on display.

“Hell, I’ll give you ten. As many as you want,” she continues, smile smaller than the one she normally has on display, but genuine.

“I should have known you’d be a pushover, Yang Xiao Long.”

“For you? Yeah. You probably should’ve.” Her lips twitch, and she reaches out to place her hand flat on Blake’s skin, right over her ribs. The action stings slightly, even with Yang’s gentleness, and Blake can’t quite figure out why until she looks down and sees the pinkening skin, precisely in the shape of one of the cutouts of her suit. “Should’ve worn sunscreen, too. You _said_ you put some on.”

It’s her cheeks that darken now, and Yang laughs again, brushing her lips against one of them.

“I _may_ have overestimated the amount of sunscreen I applied, prior to you asking.”

“Mmhmm. And by _overestimated_ you mean…”

“That I didn’t put any on at all. Yes.” Her face feels hot and she can’t quite be sure if it’s the sunburn or the embarrassment.

“Distracted?” Yang asks, moving her hand away from the burn, sliding it down to Blake’s hip, where the skin remains a light brown. “By something?”

“I’m sure you can’t possibly imagine what.”

“I can’t,” she deadpans, if only in words (and not expression). “You should give me a hint.”

Blake rolls her eyes, but it’s only for show; she’s thoroughly charmed, and gives it away right after, fingers curling around Yang’s jaw and tugging her down, but then lifting up off the mattress as well, impatient for the feeling of Yang’s mouth on hers. Despite the start, it’s slow and lazy, exploration and not intent, and she’s shocked by the thought that it’s the first time in recent memory she can remember the act of _kissing_ feeling like this: a contained act in itself, not a precursor to something else (a greeting or goodbye, an attempt at foreplay, an apology). But then, that’s fairly aligned with how _everything_ feels with Yang, moments in time that hold their own value for what they are, not what they might lead to.

“I definitely haven’t kissed you enough,” Yang murmurs, like she’s reading Blake’s mind… until she pulls away, and Blake _pouts_. “But first, I’m getting food. Stay _right_ here. I saw some fruit on the counter.”

She rolls off and doesn’t bother throwing anything on; Blake shamelessly watches, propping herself up on her elbow to get a better view as Yang moves into the kitchen, grabs a couple apples and fills the ice bucket on the counter, then brings both back over, placing the bucket on the nightstand, sliding under the sheets and kissing Blake again, as though to make up for the minute she’d been out of reach.

“Something to tide us over,” Yang murmurs, and it takes Blake a moment to realize she’s talking about the apple, lifting it up between both of them, in front of Blake’s mouth.

She takes a bite, right out of Yang’s hand, and watches lilac turn dark purple.

“Tide over as in _pause_ ,” she continues. “God, I’m going to have to close my eyes and talk to you if I want to have an actual conversation.”

Blake falls back against the pillows, laughing, taking the apple with her.

“Oh, you want to _talk_?”

“At _least_ until I finish this snack,” Yang returns, tone the same level of teasing.

“How _generous._ I better make the most of my — what? — three minutes?” She licks a bit of juice off her lips; Yang isn’t fooled, but falls for it anyways.

“Keep that up and it’ll be _two_.”

“Okay, okay.” Blake’s laughter spills over again; it’s always at capacity with Yang (everything is), the slightest addition and it’s overflowing. “I can be good.”

Oh, but _that’s_ not the right thing to say either, because Yang’s eyes flash, and Blake can see all the possibilities therein. She holds back, though — both of them do — and maintains the distance between them. (This is their new idea of _distance_ , after all: bodies aligned, skin on skin, but mouths separated.) Yang takes another bite of her apple — takes her time with it — gives herself a moment to settle.

“So _talking_ ,” she reminds them both. “Here’s what I’ve been thinking. This whole weekend has been weird as fuck and we’ve done things totally out of order, right? So I think we should like, keep that up.”

Blake’s lips push together, storing her laughter in that thin line. “I’m not _completely_ following your logic, yet.”

“I think we should just skip to the good part, basically.”

Her eyebrows lift. “ _That_ wasn’t the good part? Earlier?”

She expects a grin, and gets one, but it fades quickly in the stretch of Yang’s pause, and the expression that replaces it — the lines that appear in her brow, dashes of careful consideration — surprises her.

“Well, yeah. But also. Okay, this is going to sound crazy, but what if we just tried this out for the next two days? We’re faking being right in the middle of an awesome relationship for everyone else, so what if _we_ just… sort of forgot it was fake too? Because that’s the good part. Being comfortable with someone and not worrying about all the forced bullshit that comes with the first few dates. So let’s _skip_ that. For now. Just for the rest of the weekend. Do a trial-run, mid-relationship.”

Yang’s not joking — her earnestness on display without any guile — but Blake can’t help her smile.

“I don’t think that’s how it works, Yang.”

“Why not?”

It’s a question Blake doesn’t have an answer to.

Because _why no_ t?

Being with Yang is fun, easy, and exciting. It’s the underlying comfort that she’s always liked in a relationship, but with none of the tedium. It’s running through a high ropes course, 25 feet in the air, all the thrills without the risk, a safety line and harness in place. And why _wouldn’t_ Blake want two more days of that?

“Walk me through it?” Blake requests; her smile is growing, but it’s nothing compared to Yang’s grin.

“Well,” she begins, tossing her apple onto the nightstand and grabbing the ice bucket instead, setting it down alongside Blake. “Just as a _random_ example. If we really were dating, I’d want to help out with that sunburn. I would have looked around for aloe, but when there wasn’t _any_ around — which is ridiculous for a _beach house_ , by the way — I would have found another way to help out.”

“What a good girlfriend.” Her voice sticks in her throat, comes out rough. “You’d get creative, I’m sure.”

“Uh huh.” She reaches across Blake’s stomach, fingers trailing across the skin along the way, and dips her prosthetic into the bucket, emerges with a piece of ice between her fingers. (Blake shivers at the sight, at both the ice and the sharp tilt of Yang’s mouth.) “Something to cool you down.”

Blake’s not sure that’ll be possible at this point, and even when the ice first hits her skin — Yang sliding it carefully over her shoulder — the heat surrounding her seems to melt it immediately, a trail of water forming in its place. Still, her breath hitches at the shock of the sensation, at the first touch, and then again when Yang moves the cube over her throat, dipping into the hollow, pressing a bit harder than strictly necessary. (She drops her apple somewhere around then, and she’d feel bad about the mess it’s making on the sheets if she wasn’t so sure they were going to be making a mess of them in other ways.)

“And — you know — if we were in the middle of a relationship, I’d know all about the things you like,” Yang says softly. “The things that make you go all breathless like you just did then. When my fingers were right at your neck.”

She leaves the ice where it is and trails her fingers back up, the cold has transferred to the metal well enough, so the effect is similar when her hand curls around Blake’s throat and squeezes once, gentle, despite her words. Blake’s hips jump, right off the mattress, and Yang nods — theory confirmed — and releases her, moving back to the ice cube, sliding it the rest of the way across her collar bone.

“What else would I know about, Blake?” she asks, tone light, as though this is pleasant conversation and not a particular brand of torture (a particular brand that Blake happens to love).

“You’d know I like it… rough,” Blake breathes. “That I like to be bent over. Pressed against things. That I like to tell you exactly how I want it, a lot of the time. But sometimes… I don’t want you to listen.”

These are words she’s never spoken out loud before, never shared with her partners, and she can’t say why it’s so much easier to release them now. Maybe it’s just like everything else: she both knows Yang and she doesn’t. And — as proven daily by old women on planes — intimacies and secrets slips out easily when talking with strangers, anonymity loosening tongues. (But that’s not quite it either, is it?)

“Good thing, too. Sometimes I don’t like listening.”

The first ice cube is mostly melted, only a small chip left, and Yang pulls it off Blake’s shoulder and moves it across her mouth instead, pushing it inside when her lips part. Blake’s tongue brushes against steel and she wonders just how much of it Yang can feel (though judging from the look in her eyes — dark, intent — she can feel plenty). Her fingers slide out slowly, pull at Blake’s bottom lip, and stroke along her cheek with an unexpected gentleness, but Blake still makes a soft noise of complaint when they lift off her skin entirely, even if it’s for a second, only to grab another cube out of the bucket.

“Needy,” Yang says lowly, then drops the ice directly on Blake’s skin, directly between her breasts. “It’s not _that_ bad of a burn.”

It’s not, because Blake had forgotten about it entirely — the whole thinly veiled facade — and when Yang sticks to the lightly pinkened areas, she groans in disappointment rather than relief, needing her fingers on the places her swimsuit had covered out of propriety.

“It’s not,” she agrees, breathless. “So why don’t you put your hands where I _actually_ want them.”

Yang bites at her smile before it can fully form, but the amusement can’t be dampered; it persists when she trails the ice up Blake’s ribs, circles it around her breast, spiraling inwards until it brushes over her nipple, already stiff.

“Here?” Yang asks, when Blake groans, and it hadn’t been what she’d meant, but it’ll do just fine, especially when Yang replaces the ice with her mouth, licking along the trail of water left behind; the switch from cold to heat is overwhelming, a shock to her already addled senses, and the muscles in her abdomen tighten, hips jerk. And _god_ , thank _god_ , Yang takes it as a sign of where to move next, mouth remaining in place, but fingers and ice sliding further down the centerline of Blake’s abs, water collecting in the crevice as she continues further down, stopping just shy.

“There,” Blake whines. “ _Almost_.”

The ice is nearly melted by the time it reaches her clit, but her reaction to the sensation isn’t any less: a soft whimper and jerk, and Yang lifts her head to watch the emotions play across her face.

“There.” She says it with the finality that Blake had lacked, says it as she moves the cube in a slow circle, and — when she stretches her hand — inserts a finger into Blake’s cunt. Says again, “And there.”

Blake lifts off the mattress. Yang’s finger is _cold_ , the metal holding the temperature of the ice, and _fuck_ it feels good inside of her, especially when the room, the air around them, _everything_ else, is so hot.

“Yeah,” Blake says (groans). “Yeah, I’m — Yang, I want —”

It’s desperation rather than demand that slips out, and Yang cuts her off quickly.

“More, I know,” she says, a sharpness present, precise in its cuts. “But you’re not gonna get it. Not until you ask nicely.”

Blake whines, lifts her hips, tries to find the friction she needs, but Yang lifts her thumb with the movement, slides her finger out, nearly all the way. Only the small piece of ice remains in place and it’s _not enough_.

“ _Yang_!” Her hips jerk again, catching on nothing. “ _Please_.”

“Please what?” She’s enjoying herself too much, but then, the curl of her smug little smile only adds to it, snags on something inside of Blake and tugs.

“ _Fuck_ me.”

Yang listens. Thank _god_ she listens, pressure returning, finger sliding back in and then being joined by another (and then another). It’s zero to sixty and Blake responds in kind, crying out and rolling her hips in time with Yang’s thrusts, until it all spills over, Yang pushing her up the last bit of the peak with a speed that hits hard, given the torturous pace for the rest of the ascent. She’s out of breath by the end of it, sucking air into her lungs with desperation, shutting her eyes tight to focus on not passing out. (It’s an exaggeration, but only a little.)

“So.” Blake’s eyes flutter open, and Yang’s leaning over her, smug and pleased in one. “What do you think? You on board?”

Blake swallows, tries to sort her thoughts. “For — for what?”

Yang withdraws her fingers with a laugh. “For jumping ahead.”

“Well. That depends.” Her words are slow, stuck in a puddle of contentment. “If I say no, are you going to keep trying to convince me? Like _that?_ ”

“Baby,” Yang begins, and Blake knows the answer then, before she even continues. “I’m gonna do _that_ no matter what.”

“Then I’m on board.” She laughs too, mostly at herself, at the situation. “If you’re driving? You can take me anywhere.”

 

—

 

It shouldn’t _work_ , of course.

But somehow it does.

When Blake finds the bandana Yang had torn off earlier — still smelling of sunscreen and sweat and the sea — and ties it around Yang’s eyes, she doesn’t worry about the implications of it, any of the baggage either of them might carry.

And later, Yang — when Blake takes a bit too long — threatens to rip it off if Blake doesn’t put her mouth where she wants it in the next three seconds; promises to use it to tie Blake’s hands to the bedpost instead.

(Blake doesn’t relent. Yang keeps her promise.)

Yang’s breaking point is right where she’d thought it would be, and it’s just as fun to push past as she’d imagined.

 

—

 

“Oh my god,” Weiss says, as soon as she sees her, just like Blake had known she would.

In her defense, she’d made an attempt to cover the marks with makeup.

(She’d stared in the mirror that morning and been shocked by the range of them: the bruise around her neck, the hickies along her throat, the rings circling her wrists. Yang — a bit better off, but not by _much_ — had taken one look and laughed for a solid minute, only to restart a short while later, when Blake had given up on her concealment attempts, tossing her brushes back into her bag.)

Ruby — mid-sentence when they approach — turns to look at Weiss’s exclamation, and stares for a solid three seconds before understanding sets in, cheeks turning _bright_ red.

“Oh, come _on_.” It’d be a sigh if Yang’s grin weren’t so massive. “It’s like neither of you have ever had a good time before.” She pauses, pulling out Blake’s chair with a wink. “Oh, wait, neither of you probably ever _have_.”

“Hey!” Weiss shouts, but Ruby just nods, shoulders lifting in an exaggerated shrug.

Blake laughs, and only blushes a _little_ when Yang brushes a kiss against the top of her head when she sits. “Are you _really_ refuting that, Weiss?”

“I’ve had — I — ” They all wait for the finished thought, Yang finding her own seat and interlacing her fingers under her chin during the silence. “Not everyone wants to have ‘fun’ like _that_ ,” Weiss finally sniffs.

“And that’s _okay_ ,” Blake returns, only _slightly_ patronizing, and only to get Weiss’s trademark eyeroll.

“Yes, well, I’m _so_ glad you both had a _great_ time. Meanwhile, _Coco_ asked me where you were while we were getting ready to go up in the balloons — ”

“Which was _so_ cool!” Ruby interjects. “We got to see the sunset! And there were fireworks! And our balloon pilot lady was _so_ funny. She was like, one-hundred years old and called Weiss a stick up the — ”

“ — And I had _explain_ that you two had run off sometime before the luau to do _god_ knows what. And _she_ said — ”

“Good for them,” Yang finishes, grinning, and it’s Weiss’s turn to flush.

“That’s _exactly_ what she said,” she grumbles. “And passed on some recommendations for _shops_ in the area that I will _not_ be sharing.”

“Eh,” Yang scoffs. “I’ll just ask her later.”

Blake’s staring. And smiling. A lot. She knows this well because there’s a pleasant ache in her cheeks when Yang looks over with that grin and scoots her chair closer, stretching her arm out over the back of Blake’s chair. And when she _finally_ looks away, Weiss is smiling too. Looking at her in a way that she rarely does — soft and content — like she sees something she can’t find a single objection to.

Somehow, Blake feels exactly the same.

 

—

 

The activities continue, one after the other, just as soon as they catch their flight back to the mainland. There’s a biking tour, wine tasting, yoga classes, cooking classes, a hypnotist, paintball, and a cirque du soleil bar with aerial bartenders.

Blake and Yang miss all of it.

Back at the hotel, Blake returns to her room, absolutely planning on getting ready for the day — getting dressed, preparing a day pack — until she remembers that they have two days left and there’s nothing else she’d rather do than change into her best lace underwear and head up to Yang’s room.

So that’s exactly what she does.

And they continue doing precisely what they’d done the night before.

(Weiss calls after lunch, three times in a row before Blake finally picks up, and only because it’s part of the game; she’s used a combination of belts and a ripped t-shirt of Yang’s to manage it, but she has Yang restrained spread-eagle on the bed — spewing out an _extremely_ creative series of threats/promises/warnings about what she’s going to do to Blake as soon as she gets _out_ of them — and answering a call right _then_ is so perfect it could have been planned. Not that Weiss agrees, her voice first dry — when she asks if Blake is ever planning on coming up for air — and then flustered, when Yang’s promise to bend Blake over her knee ends up being _very_ audible over her scroll.)

But a funny thing happens in the midst of all the fucking:

They start to get to know each other as well as they’re pretending they already do.

(And not only in the ways one might expect.)

Yang slides three fingers of her prosthetic into her, and afterwards, Blake says she should already know how Yang got it, _right,_ and learns that it was from a car crash — a bad one — during a race. That the car she was in had flipped, smashed into a building, and the arm had been pinned in the wreckage, crushing the bones and nerves, requiring an amputation. She tells Blake about how Ruby had helped design the prosthetic, how she and a friend of hers had used technology that didn’t _exist_ on the market yet, because the friend was some sort of Atlesian genius who everyone called ‘eccentric’ on the best of days, but who Ruby had befriended immediately, on her very first day of grad school.

They order some strawberries and dipping chocolate and Blake dizzles it over Yang (on her neck, between and over her breasts, down her stomach), licks it off, then admits that she’s never much cared for the taste of it until now, when it’s mixed with the sweat of Yang’s skin. Yang tells her about Ruby’s sweet tooth, how her dad had barely been able to keep chocolate in the house except under lock and key because Ruby _would_ find it otherwise. How in Ruby’s first semester of college, she’d gone on a sugar high that rivaled _any_ classic freshman bender, and nearly gotten expelled in the process.

When they take a bath (after the chocolate) in the massive jacuzzi in the room, she learns that Yang is allergic to the lavender in the bubble bath when she starts violently sneezing, only stopping when she’s gone outside onto the balcony, smears of chocolate still visible on her neck, even wrapped in a robe as she is. And as they wait for a _different_ scent to be brought up, Yang tells her about the first time she’d discovered the allergy — on a Girl Scout camping trip — when she’d picked an entire bouquet of lavender plants and decorated her tent with them because she’d always thought the color purple was pretty.

It’s when they’re attempting a bit of roleplay — a recreation of their “first meeting” — they both learn they’re _not_ particularly good at it, and Yang _especially_ isn’t good at accents, if her version of the hillbilly mechanic is anything to go by. Blake ends up laughing so hard, they don’t get anywhere at all, even the promise of Yang fucking her on the hood of her imaginary Beamer isn’t enough to get her going when it’s said in such a horrible, low-pitched, twangy drawl. (And she learns that that’s okay too — that collapsing into a heap on the bed when it’s a result of laughter is almost as much fun as it is when it’s from lust.)

But, maybe best of all, she learns that Yang has a very particular sense of humor when it comes to wedding presents, which she discovers sometime after dinner (room service, of course), when Yang is tossing things out of her bag in a leisurely search for the deck of cards she _swears_ she packed (and wants to use for some game she promises will result in Blake coming at _least_ three times).

“Oh,” Yang says, halting in her search as she pulls out a not-quite-neatly wrapped present, larger than Blake would have thought could have remained a surprise, even in a bag the size of Yang’s. “Shit, I nearly forgot about this, with everything else going on.”

“And by _everything else_ you mean just _me_ , right?” Blake murmurs, leaning over, reaching for the gift, which Yang offers without resistance. “What is it?”

“It was gonna be a wedding present for Coco. And Velvet. Maybe especially for Velvet.”

Blake tilts her head, smile following suit. “Want to explain that?”

“Mmm, no.” She falls back on the bed, alongside Blake, hand finding her skin (resting on the small of her back) automatically. “Open it and find out.”

“ _Open_ the gift you got for the brides?” One eyebrow lifts. “For their _wedding_?”

“Well, we did the charity thing they _actually_ wanted.” She waves her hand with all the drama of a conductor, as though dismissive of the very notion. “So this was supposed to be something for _fun_ , but Ruby didn’t want to give it to them. And I’ve _just_ realized why she was accidentally right. So open it.”

The eyeroll is mostly for dramatic effect — but maybe _somewhat_ for the gentle knock of Yang’s shoulder into hers, the loose blanket Yang’s draped around herself and the sheets bunched at Blake’s waist the only barrier between them. It also doesn’t stop her from opening the gift, though she takes her time, sliding a finger carefully between the tape (with a resulting scoff from Yang), but once the paper is removed, the plain, black box underneath gives her little further clue as to the contents. So it’s only until she pulls the lid off and looks inside that she realizes exactly what Yang has planned.

“Oh,” she says. And then (after licking her lips once), again, with feeling. “ _Oh.”_

“The first time I met Coco I knew _three_ things right away,” Yang begins. “She was cool as _fuck_ , she was going to marry Velvet, _and_ , most importantly in this case, she had _palpable_ strap-on energy. If _anyone_ is going to appreciate a _super_ nice leather harness, it’s going to be that woman, that’s all I’m saying.”

“You bought a harness — ”

“ — And a toy to fit!” She points out, leaning into Blake so she can do so literally. “Oh, and leather cleaner. And water-based lube. Important.”

“ — and a _dildo_ for a _wedding present_?”

“Well, _yeah_. Originally. But I _just_ told you I’d thought of a better use for them. I already have one of these, actually, but it’s not _here_ and you are, so...” She flashes Blake a grin. “What do you think?”

Blake reaches into the box, fingers brushing over the brown leather of the harness before she pulls it out, hands it to Yang. “I think I’m glad you decided there were better uses for it than a wedding present.”

“Give me a few minutes.” Yang’s eyebrows lift up and down. “I’ll show you all of them.”

 

—

 

“You know those coming-of-age movies where the best friend waits outside the dressing room for the lead character to emerge with her new, made-over look? This feels a lot like that.”

Except instead of a makeover montage set to peppy pop music, the whole scene is Blake waiting for Yang to fuck her into the mattress with a strap-on. _Slightly_ different in focus, but she thinks the overall point of the metaphor still stands.

Blake’s thrown on one of the silk robes the hotel had provided (likely for situations just like this) standing in front of the large window in the living area that stretches nearly from floor to ceiling. The view of the bay below them is gorgeous, the soft lights of ships in port a mirror of the stars above, and Blake presses her fingers to the pane of glass as she waits, sipping on a glass of champagne. The moment seems to demand the drama of it all — the robe, the staring into the night, the slim flute glass — it fits with the tension hovering in the air, a weight that settles against her throat pleasantly, much like the smell of sex that saturates the suite. The wait is a recovery, a game, and a practicality, all in one.

“So, do I get the classic jaw-drop of approval, then?” Yang asks, and when Blake turns, it’s clear the smugness present in Yang’s tone had been an answer in itself.

Because _yeah_ , a jaw drop seems perfectly appropriate for the situation.

The brown leather of the harness looks perfect against Yang’s skin, the fit — low on her hips — highlights the cut of her muscles in her stomach, and the gold of the buckles and rings are the same color of the large, curving dildo slotted into the harness. Not everyone can make a strap-on look sexy, but Yang is certainly one of them, and Blake isn’t the least bit surprised.

“That,” she rasps, “is a good look on you.”

Especially when Yang strides closer, close enough for her to run her fingers along Blake’s jaw, to thumb along her bottom lip, the position of each showcasing exactly the reaction Yang had desired.

“Apparently.” Her smile curls a little more. “The one I have at home fits a little better, remember? That one’s fitted to my measurements. And we’ve used it so much that the leather is _soft_.”

“We use it _often_ ,” Blake says, not a question.

“All the time.” She plucks Blake’s champagne flute from her hand and drains it, tossing the glass somewhere in the direction of the couch. It’s not followed by the sound of shattering, so Blake figures she must have managed to hit her mark, though she doesn’t particularly _care_ either way, not when Yang takes that last step in and kisses her, the taste of alcohol still on her lips.

The sash of Blake’s robe is so loosely tied that Yang undoes it with one tug, and Blake shrugs it off before Yang can get a hand to her shoulder to help. Somehow the feeling of Yang’s skin against hers is still electric, but the feeling of the leather at her hips — which Blake settles her hands over — adds to it, the rub of the silicon against Blake’s stomach, even more so.

“Sometimes you pick me up,” Blake breathes, against Yang’s lips. “I like that.”

“Sometimes I spin you around. Fuck you from behind.” Yang’s hand is back at her jaw, holding it tightly, fingers digging into the underside. “You like that too.”

Blake nods and leans in to meet Yang’s mouth again; she’s insistent, but not as much as Yang, who has her taking three steps back with the force of her push, until she has Blake’s back pressed up against the window, cool glass a stimulating contrast to the warmth of her front (and the warmth pooling inside her).

“Here?” she groans, a request rather than a question, though not one without heat; she takes Yang’s lower lip into her mouth and bites hard enough to make her point known.

“Here.” It comes out as a soft hiss, the pain of the nip hardening her words. “You don’t even want me to bother with the blinds, do you? I know you like it. The idea that anyone could look up and see me fucking you.”

“Depends.” She urges Yang closer, fingernails digging into her side. “Are you going to put on a good show?”

Yang’s soft huff of laughter is all the warning she gets before Yang leans down and pulls up one of Blake’s legs, hooking her elbow under the crook of her knee, trapping her between her chest and the pane of glass; the friction it creates is absolutely intoxicating, but still not enough, and Blake moans a little, hips jerking as much as they can, pressed in place as she is.

“Don’t I always?”

She reaches down between them, slips a finger inside of Blake, then two; Blake’s head falls back, knocking against the glass.

“Arrogant,” she groans.

“Confident.” Her lips brush against Blake’s neck, the renewed access to the expanse of skin too tempting to leave alone.

Blake’s attempt at a scoff is far from the mark, enough that it encourages rather than deters.

“Another thing you like. Apparently,” Yang murmurs, and pulls her fingers out, wipes the wetness against Blake’s thigh, purposeful in their drag against her skin; it’s a step too far, but Yang only laughs when Blake bares her teeth, letting her impatience show.

“I’d like it more if you fucking did something about — ”

Yang cuts her off by giving her exactly what she wants, shifting down and then up, sliding in without force or hesitation, the smoothness of the motion belonging to someone who has clearly done this before. And Blake finds it easy to be appreciative (to show it), her complaints falling into a moan, hands lifting to grip at Yang’s shoulders, tightening in place when Yang shifts again, her next thrust hitting everything it should.

“ — _That_. Oh, _that.”_

“Yeah?”

Yang’s hair is wild, falling into her eyes and tousled above her head, and under the high lights in the ceiling, the blonde strands seem to circle around, turn gold, turn into light itself. And Blake can believe it too — believe in all the talk about heaven and angels — because it makes perfect sense to her, right then, that the reward for a well-lived life would involve getting railed by Yang Xiao Long against the window of a hotel suite.

“What else, baby?” she continues, breathing labored. “I know you wanna tell me exactly what you want.”

The answer is always the same with Yang; she always wants the same thing.

“ _More_ ,” she breathes. “Harder.” And then, another thought, when she watches Yang’s lips twist. “Kiss me.”

She gets all three without delay. It’s impossible to say which one does the most, but Yang’s mouth — hot and open and demanding — is what she sinks her efforts into meeting, biting hard enough at her lower lip to make her yelp, and then growl, picking up her pace, slamming Blake harder against the window (hard enough to make the pane tremble).

A while of that — of Yang’s lips against her mouth and then her neck and then whispering in her ear, of her hips rolling into hers, of the harness brushing against her skin with each thrust — and she’s close (so _close_ ) right on the brink, to the point that it’s nearly painful. She’s moments away for begging for something more, something different, something deeper harder faster, and Yang has to know it. Which is why when she drops Blake’s leg, steps back, pulls _out_ , it’s _cruel_. Enough to make her cry out. And Blake’s knees shake with it. Her voice too.

“Fuck — fuck you, Yang!”

She’s sputtering, in shock from the abrupt denial, but it doesn’t last for long. Yang spins her around, pushes her front to the glass (Blake only _just_ catching herself against the window, forearms bracing by reflex alone) and slides back in with one fluid jerk. She grabs her hip, keeps her in place, and reaches around to press two fingers to Blake’s clit as well, lets her rut against them with the motion of every push.

“Fuck me?” Yang questions, voice strained with effort, but still smug, and _god_ Blake takes it all back — everything she’d wanted to shout at Yang a minute before — nearly chokes out a _thank you_ in her relief.

The view outside looks different now, lights of the boats and stars blurred by the haze of her thoughts, the reflection of shadows, and the condensation she’s breathing against the glass with each pant. Blake doesn’t care doesn’t care doesn’t care about anything but her building release, Yang at her back, the pressure between her thighs. Until she notices those shadows, viewed at the right angle, come together in a proper reflection, a proper view of her own expression — twisted into pleasure — of Yang fucking her, lust and something else filling the lines and planes of her face.

The sight is enough to push her over, has her pitching forward against the glass as she shudders, comes, falls apart. Yang catches her, hand sliding forward around her hip, circling her waist and keeping her close as she crashes into her a few more times, before sliding out, her groans loud, audible over the pounding of Blake’s pulse in her own ears.

“You probably should’ve given it to them,” Blake mumbles, after she’s recovered her breath, eyes closed, glass cool against her skin.

Yang’s laugh is little more than a huff: soft and breathless. “Yeah?”

“Uh huh.” She runs her tongue against the back of her teeth, swallows against the dryness. “Hard to think of a present _I’ve_ enjoyed more, anyways.”

This time, the laugh is louder, fuller, and when Yang scoops her up, lifting her into her arms bridal style, Blake can feel it in her chest too. It’s warm and safe and Blake doesn’t want to be anywhere else, can’t see a reason why she’d ever want space from this.

“So, I’m glad you didn’t,” she adds, and when Yang lays her back down on the bed, she kisses her slow.

 

—

 

It’s silly, the way her stomach twists and turns as she stares in the mirror.

By now, Yang has seen her at her most bare, in every sense of the word (makeup wiped clean by sweat _or_ bent over the arm of her couch, not a single item of clothing between her and Yang’s hand, cracking against her ass, leaving a blush of red behind) so there’s little sense in worrying about her appearance. If Yang is as enchanted by _those_ sights as she truly seems to be, then adding in longer lashes, lined eyes, darker lips, and precisely curled hair probably won’t make much of a difference in increasing her esteem. But the logic slides over her head without effect as she takes her time in the bathroom — the morning of the wedding ceremony — nearly an hour and a half after she’d managed to escape Yang’s room with a long kiss (that nearly turned into something longer).

(“This is the _one_ thing we can’t miss,” she’d laughed, Yang’s mouth at her neck, hands under her shirt.

“Yeah, but think of everything we could do with the _hours_ we still have.”

“Mmm, like getting _ready_ for the wedding.”

“I’d rather get _you_ ready.” A grin. A wink. “Not that it takes _long_.”

“You’re the definition of insatiable.”

“Oh, babe, if my picture is in _that_ entry, yours is _right_ next to it.”)

When the knock comes, her stomach tightens into knots. It’s logic deserting her again; Yang had promised to meet her at the venue and Weiss had promised to help with her dress (and with a few touch-ups on makeup: the places she couldn’t reach, the places Yang _had_ ), so it’s obviously her best friend at the door, and not the woman who’s made wearing blush something of an overkill, given her predilection for making Blake flush.

Weiss looks beautiful, of course. Her hair is down — straight and white and shining — in a way it rarely is, her makeup is done with a light hand, and her dress — a soft, blue off-the-shoulder garment made with flowing fabric — fits her perfectly. Blake feels a hint of guilt, looking at her, remembering that she’d come here as Weiss’s guest and absolutely abandoned her after a couple hours in. But Weiss hardly looks put out now, smiling at Blake with nothing but fondness. Even if her opening words _maybe_ convey the opposite.

“Well, look at that. You’ve managed to hide the _numerous_ marks of your sin this time around.”

“Approximately how long is it going to take you to let go of that?” She swings the door open fully, allowing Weiss to glide in, sniffing in put-upon contempt as she passes. “Or, better yet, let go of the whole weekend, in general?”

“The rest of our lives seems reasonable.” She disappears into Blake’s room, and Blake waits, leaning up against the wall of the living area, smile pulling at her lips. “Depending on how you go about describing what’s _happened_ to you this weekend.”

“The less details, the less trouble I’m in?” Blake guesses.

“In fact, I’d prefer no details at all about the things that you _know_ would make me want to bleach my brain.” Emerging once again — this time with a garment bag in her hands — Weiss strides back over, unzipping it along the way. “I meant — oh, you know what I meant. Change into your dress.”

“I don’t know what you meant. I have a very one-track mind these days.”

And maybe that’s proven when she shrugs off her robe and reveals her nicest lingerie underneath, a sight that has Weiss rolling her eyes and shoving the dress into her hands.

“Yes, I _noticed_ while I was forced to team up with Ruby for literally every activity you missed yesterday. We did yoga together, Blake. _Yoga_. How do you think Ruby did with _that_?”

Blake blinks, keeps a straight face. “She seems like the sort to find her center of calm extremely easily. I’m sure you had a wonderful session.”

“We got kicked out,” Weiss returns blandly. “Politely ejected because Ruby kept _giggling_.”

“And you were…?”

The dark red that blooms on Weiss’s cheek is unexpected, but interesting. “Pyrrha was in front of me. I may have been… distracted.”

Slipping her dress over her head doesn’t quite muffle her laughter as much as she’d hoped, or so she suspects, given Weiss’s glare when she finishes sliding the material into place.

“Oh, do not _start,_ given what you’ve put me through this weekend.”

Blake holds up her hands: a gesture of surrender and a silent plea for Weiss to adjust the straps of her dress.

“Trust me, I realize. I won’t be giving you _any_ shit for your dalliance with Olympic medalist Pyrrha Nikos.” Her eyes spark with humor. “But I _will_ be asking for details.”

“You first,” Weiss snips, moving around her, smoothing down her dress as she goes, zipping it up at the back. “You still haven’t told me what’s going on with you and Yang.”

Before answering, she steps in front of the full-length mirror, shaking out the skirt of the dress — hem falling to the floor — and smiles at what she sees: it hugs her body perfectly, stretching over her curves without bunching, square neckline and v-keyhole keeping their shape against her breasts even in movement, the side slit at the front hem long enough to keep things relatively modest (but still interesting).

In that moment — giving herself her most critical once-over and finding nothing out of place — Blake can only think of Yang, can only think of the look that will undoubtedly overtake her the moment she sees Blake in this. Weiss, caught in her smugness as she is, still sucks in a little breath at the full effect, and her expression softens when Blake turns to her, eyes still bright with the thought of it, matching the color of the dress.

“Weiss, I can’t even begin to describe it.”

All that softness — all that tenderness — is still in place when Weiss takes two steps in, hand lifting to fit against the sliver of skin at Blake’s shoulder.

“I don’t know that you have to,” she murmurs. “That’s answer enough.”

 

—

 

Except it hadn’t been one at all, and — standing outside of the venue for the wedding — Blake can’t stop thinking about Weiss’s casual acceptance of it as one. The easy smile, the soft touch, the things that Weiss doesn’t always show without effort — even a decade into friendship — but they’d come so simply at this, at her sorry excuse of an answer to a perfectly valid question.

Because she should _know_ what’s going on between her and Yang. She should have a better understanding of why it’s easy to pretend (in front of company and from the privacy of the suite) that they’d been this way for months, long before the start of the weekend. Why it all feels like a continuation rather than a beginning.

She’s never been the sort to give all of herself, and she’s always had the awareness to recognize the issue with that, the obvious wall it forms in her relationships before they have a chance to begin. But with Yang — with her little grin and her ridiculous idea of fast forwarding, of skipping through the introductions — she’s not sure she’d had the chance to manage it. Lost in the daze of every encounter, blinded by the speed of it all, she’d forgotten to feel concern.

The easiest explanation is the lust. She’s certainly felt enough of it — from the very first encounter — to fog the mind with ease, and it’d hardly lessened, even after their many ( _many_ ) rounds, each at once intensely satisfying and achingly arousing, to the point that Blake’s convinced she’ll never be able to stop wanting Yang, not even if they keep up this pace for years. It’s that thought — that _very_ notion — that makes Blake think there must be something else to all of this, makes her think that the easiest explanation isn’t the whole of it. Not by a long shot.

And it’s like the universe is trying to prove that point, because when the next limo pulls up Yang is the first one to step out, and something wraps around Blake’s heart and squeezes, hard enough to ride the fine line between pain and pleasure. It goes right to her head, messes with her equilibrium, pitches the sloped ground beneath her feet.

Yang’s dress is purple — darker than her eyes, but complimentary to the color — and strapless, broad shoulders, firm muscles, and envious cleavage all on display by the asymmetrically draped bodice that hugs her torso like it was sculpted atop it. Not even Yang’s curls are blocking the view of all that skin, because Yang’s pinned her hair up, blonde strands braided around her head and twisted into an elaborate knot at the back. There’s a thick, golden, cuff bracelet on her left wrist and, somehow, in the time since Blake last saw her, she’s added gold plating to her prosthetic as well, standing out against the standard black.

The last feature Blake notices is the slit at the side — more daring than her own — because when Yang walks towards her, every step shows off a flash of her thigh, tempting flashes of the skin she’s spent the past 24 hours memorizing (with taste and sight and touch).

“Blake. Hi.”

When she speaks, Blake realizes that Yang’s just as affected by the sight before her as Blake is, and it almost makes her laugh, thinking that someone who looks like _this_ could be touched by anything at all. But she’s breathless and her eyes are wide and she’s looking at Blake like she designed the universe around them, placed each star purposefully in the sky, warped time itself, all to bring them both together here and now.

“Hi.”

Other people had been in the limo with Yang; she knows this because one of them brushes up against her, offers her a cheerful greeting by name. She hardly catalogues it. Can’t bring herself to look away.

“You look — ” Yang lets out a long breath. “I don’t even know how to — ”

“Yeah,” Blake agrees, much in the same way. “You too.”

“Can I —?” She reaches out, brushes her fingers against Blake’s hand (it burns, shocks, soothes).

The question strikes Blake as absurd; Yang has touched every part of her body over the past two days and now she’s asking if she can hold Blake’s hand. But then, Blake’s hardly any better; she can only nod in response, and swallows audibly when Yang’s hand slides slowly along her palm — slotting their fingers together — shapes meant to interlock clicking in place.

It’s lust. But it’s everything else too.

“Ready?”

Blake nods again.

 

—

 

The wedding is beautiful.

Candles float in place without any obvious strings, a fifty person choir sings the wedding march, and Coco’s eyes — no longer blocked by tinted glass — fill with tears when Velvet says ‘I do’.

She misses most of it.

Her eyes hardly stray from Yang for more than two seconds at a time throughout, and as she watches, her certainty grows, vines twining around the words forming in her mind, sentiment taking root. She knows what this is. She’s absolutely sure. And after the brides walk out and the wedding guests follow, she doesn’t let Yang leave her seat before saying it, reaching out for the metal of Yang’s right hand without a trace of hesitation.

“Yang,” she begins, slow and careful. “After this is over — this weekend, I mean — do you want to—”

“Yes.”

The response is hurried but sure, and Yang — gaze steady despite its intensity — doesn’t look away. Blake’s hit right in the chest with it, warmth spreading from the center of the impact with speed and purpose. She doesn’t realize she’s smiling until it starts to ache.

“You don’t even know what I was going to say,” she says, and the smile is there too, right in her inflection.

“Do I want to keep this going? Go on a date? Literally anything that involves me seeing you again? Yes to _any_ of it.” Yang leans closer, Blake’s hand still in hers. “The whole weekend we’ve been _perfect_ , Blake. This morning, one of Coco’s aunts asked me when _our_ wedding was going to be. Yesterday _I_ nearly forgot we hadn’t been dating for months. And honestly?”

Yang’s eyes are bright and guileless, and Blake almost doesn’t need her to speak to know exactly what she’s trying to say. She probably should have caught it earlier, but it’s the first time she realizes Yang _always_ says exactly what she means. And somehow, that’d been the case even in the middle of their games of pretend.

Which means her next words — spoken with a wide grin — make perfect sense.

“I’m fucking _terrible_ at acting.”

 

—

 

Not quite a year later, and Blake knows this for a fact.

Their housewarming party is relatively small affair: Weiss, Ruby, Sun, Pyrrha, Nora, Ilia, Coco, and Velvet. It’s an interesting collection of personalities, but it’d become a common grouping over the past year, at events ranging from Thursday Trivia Night to political rallies to Yang’s races — the latter of which, Blake has discovered, results in her being both terrified and horny, which is why it’s fortunate that their post-race celebrations solve _both_ those issues. There’s rarely anything the ten of them agree upon, outside of the strictly enforced ruling that when it comes to game night, the only fair option is to draw straws to decide teams. Mainly to account for one particular weak link.

“ _Where the Wild Things Are_? Are you _kidding_ me? That was supposed to be Where the _freaking_ Wild Things Are?”

Blake’s laughing so hard, her eyes are watering, but she can envision Weiss’s expression, can construct it from memory alone. She can manage the same for Yang, of course, the indignant face she puts on every single time they play any form of Charades.

“Okay, fuck you, Weiss. That was a _perfect_ monster! How did you guys not _get_ that? I was doing _Godzilla_! For the wild part!”

“Even _if_ anyone could have figured out _Godzilla_ — which is a huge stretch because what even _were_ those arm movements, Yang? They were more octopus than _anything_ , if you could even call them _anything_ — why would that make us think _wild_?” Nora shrieks.

“Are you _serious_? That was me _crushing_ _a building with my claws_ , first of all. And second of all, that book is about _monsters_. Come _on_!”

“Terrible,” Weiss groans. “I’ve never met someone worse at this. I once again motion that any game involving Yang having to act anything out be completely dropped from our repertoire.”

“Motion denied,” Coco says, dismissing Weiss with a wave of her hand. “Last week, you nearly choked on your wine when Yang had to pretend to be James Ironwood during Heads Up.”

“Yes, well, I wasn’t on her _team_ then, was I?”

Ruby shakes her head. “We all have to take turns, Weiss. And _none_ of you have room to complain; I’ve had to put up with this for my _whole_ life.”

“Blake!” Yang sighs, overly dramatic, and collapses onto the couch, head falling into Blake’s lap, looking up at her with wide, pleading eyes. “We _live_ together now. And since I’ve read _all the laws_ , I _know_ that means you’re legally obligated to stop people from making fun of me.”

“I must have missed that one in law school,” Blake muses, lips twitching, but Yang’s pout deepens and so she leans down for a consolation kiss.

It lasts longer than it should. Like it usually does.

“You know what I’m _not_ going to miss? Having to see _that_ every day in my living room.” Ruby makes a loud retching noise. “And _oh_! I won’t miss having to wear earplugs _all_ the time.”

The resulting sigh is sharp enough that it can only belong to Weiss. “And _I_ won’t miss Ruby asking me to help lysol that apartment at _least_ once a week. Honestly, I’d have thought these two would have gotten it out of their system at _your_ wedding last year.”

“I think Weiss is lashing out at _us_ now, Velvet,” Coco drawls. “Isn’t _that_ funny? Given who knew _what_ at the start of all this.”

“Oh, shut _up_.”

Blake lifts her head just in time to see Weiss sink further into the couch, crossing her arms. Which means she also catches Pyrrha placing an arm around her back (brushing her fingers along Weiss’s neck), watches the way Weiss immediately loses any trace of a frown.

“Well it’s all over _now_ ,” Nora laughs, high and loud. “You two have _moved in together_! You’re _stuck_ with each other. And all because of _dumb Mercury_.”

“I feel like I can take a _little_ bit of the credit,” Yang protests lightly, lazy and content as Blake runs her fingers through her hair.

“Or do you mean the _blame_?” Sun teases, batting away Ilia’s hand as she tries to take a cheeto from the bowl he’s tucked between his legs, tail curling around it. “Because this is the ball and chain bit, now. Moving in with _Blake_? She’s _so_ high strung. You’ve _gotta_ be worried.”

“Nah.”

The word is a sigh — one full of nothing but happiness — and Blake looks back down at the noise, takes in Yang’s easy smile, basks in the glow that comes from everything being perfectly in place. She knows exactly how Yang will continue her thought, knows precisely what moment she’s thinking of by the tilt of her lips.

“All of _this_? This is the good part.”

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. I gotta say, I think I nailed [the playlist for this fic](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0r1h19BHxStC4RUxNjoUWO?si=zodIrkZoQJOLa-j7fnnCXg) so check it OUT.
> 
> 2\. Thanks to perpetuallyfive/sexonastick for reading through this stupidly long thing. She made some real sacrifices and missed the beginning of E3 to finish it.
> 
> 3\. If you haven’t checked out the other 6/9 fic and art, what are you waiting for? There’ll be a masterpost at some point that I’ll reblog on [my tumblr](https://thecousinsdangereux.tumblr.com)


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